


Every Fifteen Minutes

by a_matter_of_loyalty



Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Crack Treated Seriously, Drunk Driving, Educational Program, Every Fifteen Minutes Program, Fake Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Iron Family, Midtown High, Ned Leeds Needs a Hug, Not Really Character Death, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Presumed Dead, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, but not really, psst don't drink and drive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:26:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_matter_of_loyalty/pseuds/a_matter_of_loyalty
Summary: “In honor of Peter Benjamin Parker,” the obituary reads. “2001 - 2017. Peter B. Parker, 16, died on the 5th of February, 2017, as a result of injuries sustained in a car crash involving a drunk driver…”Tony can't finish reading. He swears his heart stops. “FRIDAY,” he croaks.He doesn’t have to finish the order; FRIDAY, as if reading his mind, activates his Iron Man suit and sends it to envelop his body. Tony is shooting through the skies before he even fully realizes it.OR: Peter Parker was in a car crash—except... he wasn’t. One forgetful Spider-Kid, one sleepy best friend, and one misleading post on social media all lead to a disastrous turn of events, culminating in the arrival of an unexpected guest at Midtown High.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: Tales of Tony Stark and Peter Parker (AKA Iron Dad and Spider Son) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815769
Comments: 127
Kudos: 796
Collections: Avidreaders Avengers completed faves, Avidreaders Spiderman completed faves, Peter Parker Stories, ellie marvel fics - read, escapism (to forget that the world is a burning hellscape)





	1. count the ways I let you down

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to write another story involving both Midtown High and Tony Stark somehow (because I love drama), and I was searching up different school events (because I love the Career Day and Parent Teacher Conference tropes, but I wanted to try something different) when I came across this. “Every Fifteen Minutes” is apparently a real educational program in the US. However, I do not live in the US myself and I’ve taken some liberties with the details, so this is probably not at all an accurate representation of the program.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from lyrics of Beautiful Goodbye by Maroon 5.

_“The worst day of loving someone is the day that you lose them.”_

_—L.J. Smith_

* * *

**count the ways I let you down**

_Every fifteen minutes, someone dies from an alcohol-related collision._

* * *

“All right, class,” Roger Harrington calls out over the sound of murmuring students. He is standing impatiently at the front of the classroom, leaning back against his desk as he flips through a pile of pamphlets in his hands. “Settle down.”

The students either don’t hear him or are simply content with ignoring him, continuing to chatter amongst themselves.

_Did Ms. Warren assign us any homework for tomorrow?_

_Oh my god, did you hear about Lucas and Brooke? Apparently they broke up—_

_Can you believe what she’s wearing—_

“I said _settle down_!” Mr. Harrington barks, restraint snapping in half. His students descend into a hush immediately, scrambling to attention with more than a little annoyance. Truthfully, despite his show of impatience, Mr. Harrington can’t find it in himself to blame them: it is their last class of the day, their “advisory period” as it’s named on their schedule, and it is typically the one period in the week where they can simply sit back and relax with their friends. He himself is dismayed by the disruption to their regularly scheduled programming (read: their “chill time” as Jason calls it)—he’s _tired_ of dealing with students 24/7, damnit, and he needs a _break_ , so sue him—but Principal Morita personally approached him with instructions earlier in the day, and he can’t exactly disobey.

So like any good teacher, Mr. Harrington shoves down his exhaustion and schools his face into a mild smile. “A few weeks from now, we will be participating in an educational program known as _Every Fifteen Minutes_ ,” he announces. “It is designed to teach students the severe, life-changing consequences of drinking and driving.”

The students burst out into hushed whispers. No doubt they all remember this program from the previous year, though it will be their first time participating. Mr. Harrington sends them all a pointed _look_ , and they dutifully quiet once more.

“Now, for today,” he continues once he has their undivided attention, “all of you will be using this period to choose one person in your class who you admire. I will be passing out blank sheets of paper shortly. As soon as you receive one, please write down the name of your chosen classmate, and a short paragraph detailing your reason for picking them.”

Betty Brant’s hand immediately shoots up. Mr. Harrington stifles a sigh, giving her a halfhearted nod that signals _go on_ , and she promptly asks, “What does this exercise have to do with the program?”

Mr. Harrington’s smile grows strained. “You’ll find out why we’re doing this later on in the program,” he replies vaguely. Before anyone else can come up with any questions, Mr. Harrington says stiffly, “Let’s get started.”

He sets the pamphlets back down onto his desk—they’ll come in handy later—and picks up another pile of paper; this time, the blank sheets he promised earlier. He hands the pile to the student at the front of the class, and immediately retreats to his seat as his students begin passing out paper to each other.

His part done, Mr. Harrington happily returns to grading last week’s tests, blissfully tuning out his restless students as they go about their task.

Once everyone has a blank sheet of paper in front of them, the voices recede to a trickle once more as they all rack their brains for a name. Some students steal considering glances around the room, appraising their classmates in their minds.

Peter Parker, Midtown High’s awkward disaster by day and Queens’ beloved Spider-Man by night, doesn’t need to give it any thought. He plucks a pen from out of his pencil case and immediately begins writing about his best friend.

> _Ned’s been my best friend since I was seven years old. I’d just transferred to Midtown after losing my parents, and as soon as I met him, he took me by the hand and invited me to play on the monkey bars with him. I wasn’t very good at it, but he kept inviting me anyway. It was the first time I smiled since my parents’ funeral. Since then, Ned has given me a thousand more reasons to smile. That is why I admire him: no matter what, Ned never loses hope or happiness. He always looks on the bright side, and…_

Beside him, Ned is putting pen to paper just as easily, his choice coming naturally to him as well. He wishes he could write about Spider-Man—write about how his best friend is a real-life hero, how his best friend unhesitatingly puts his life at risk every night to fight crime, how his best friend swung into his room last night with a bleeding wound but also a blinding smile because _there was this woman, Ned, and she needed my help, I couldn’t just do nothing!_

But he knows Peter keeps his identity a secret for a reason, so Ned locks that desire away firmly. It’s not as if he can’t think of tons to write about, anyway, even _with_ Spider-Man out of the question. After all, even before he discovered his best friend’s alter ego, he’s always known Peter is _special_. Because even before Spider-Man, Peter was already the strongest, most resilient, most _selfless_ person Ned knew.

(Peter Parker was a hero long before Spider-Man was born.)

> _Peter’s had a difficult life. Time after time, life kicks him down and refuses to let him up. He lost his parents at such a young age, and then his uncle a few years later. But no matter what life throws at him, Peter always, always gets up. He never stops trying; he never stops fighting. I admire him because of his unyielding tenacity and his refusal to give in to life’s cruelties. Despite the hardships he’s faced, Peter is still the kindest, happiest person I know. He’s always willing to lend others a hand in whatever way he can…_

* * *

“Time’s up!” Mr. Harrington announces seconds before the bell rings. The students let out a quiet cheer as they drop their pens and gather their bags, and Mr. Harrington allows himself a small smile of his own. Still, he doesn’t let them run off quite yet. “I hope you’ve all finished writing your paragraphs,” he warns before they can rush out.

Their mumbled agreements make him roll his eyes. “All right, all right, I won’t keep you any longer,” he relents. “On your way out, please pick up one of these _Every Fifteen Minutes_ pamphlets”—he taps the pile of pamphlets with his pen—“and make sure to read those over sometime during the next couple of weeks. That’ll be all, class.”

* * *

_The students had it easy,_ Mr. Harrington muses to himself as he shuffles through the papers with their choices. He, along with the other teachers, are required to stay after school hours and assess each student’s note to determine which of the kids should be selected to participate in the program as a “casualty.”

Principal Morita advised them to choose a popular, well-liked kid to ensure that the effects of _Every Fifteen Minutes_ are profound and widely-felt. _If it’s a popular kid you want,_ Mr. Harrington thinks, _the choice is obvious._

As if to confirm his thoughts, his eyes fall onto the note at the top of the pile and zero in on the name Flash Thompson.

Eugene “Flash” Thompson, arguably one of the most popular students in his class due to his parents’ wealth and his own sophisticated attitude, has created a “following” for himself within the halls of Midtown High. His cronies tend to stick to Flash like glue, following their ringleader around like thoughtless ducks. But as popular as Flash is, Mr. Harrington feels reluctant to pick him. He doubts Flash fits the criteria of “well-liked” amongst the majority of his peers, _despite_ his popularity. Flash is a bully of the “high school jackass” variety, and his snobbish attitude repels just as many people as it attracts, if not more.

Mr. Harrington shakes his head and tucks the note with Flash’s name under all of the other papers. He resigns himself to a long afternoon of sorting through the notes, keeping an eye out for any recurring not-Flash names. The faster he finishes, the sooner he’ll be able to go _home_.

 _Betty, Cindy, Charles, Flash again, Abe, Seymour, another Flash, Ned…_ Mr. Harrington perks up slightly. The note dedicated to Ned Leeds is noticeably longer than all the rest before it, and Mr. Harrington recognizes the handwriting as belonging to Peter Parker immediately.

Teachers aren’t _supposed_ to have a favorite. That is the unspoken rule. But there is also an unspoken footnote to that unspoken rule that goes like this: _Teachers might not be supposed to have a favorite, but they do anyway. As long as the students don’t know, well, it can’t hurt anyone._

Peter Parker is without a doubt Mr. Harrington’s star student. Friendly and polite to everyone, Peter is a beacon of light in his class, one that everyone—even those who resent him, like Flash—can recognize. Even without Peter’s conscious effort, his generosity and thoughtfulness draw his classmates to him like moths to a flame.

Besides his obvious _goodness_ , Peter is also achingly _smart_. Ridiculously so. He is intelligent and creative and _brilliant_ —but he never brags about it.

And sure, Peter has _changed_ over the last few months, turning up to class later and later and sometimes even falling asleep in the middle of his lectures, but his grades never slack. Mr. Harrington can’t deny he’s _worried_ about the boy. He’s heard all the rumors about Peter: he’s heard the other teachers discussing Peter’s sudden decision to resign from nearly all of his extracurriculars; he’s heard Coach Wilson muttering something about _bruises_ and _scars_ ; he’s heard students in the hallway giggling over Flash’s proclamations that Peter is a liar pretending to intern for Stark Industries.

For the most part, Mr. Harrington lets the rumors flow in one ear and out the other. He doesn’t like judging his students or making assumptions, after all. But even he can’t ignore some of the signs. He sent Peter to the guidance counselor a few weeks ago after Peter fell asleep during Academic Decathlon and woke up _screaming_ after everyone else went home, but the rest is out of Harrington’s hands. He isn’t allowed to pry, he knows that.

That doesn’t stop him from fretting, though.

He sighs and redirects his gaze to Peter’s note. Out of curiosity—wondering what kind of traits someone as pure as Peter Parker would admire—Mr. Harrington pushes his reading glasses further up the bridge of his nose and reads the whole note.

> _…he never fails to make me laugh or smile. Ned is one of the best and brightest things in my life. I’m lucky to have him as my best friend._

Mr. Harrington exhales softly, the breath rushing out with an awed sort of wonder. Peter’s note about Ned is heartfelt and sentimental, nothing like the snatches of _she's cute and she always wears the most fashionable outfits_ or _I think he's really smart_ he caught glimpses of from the other notes.

Setting aside Peter’s note about Ned for now, Mr. Harrington flicks through the rest of the notes until he finds Ned’s note—unsurprisingly for Peter. He pulls it out of the stack, smoothing it out on top of the other notes.

> _…and even though he’s had it hard, Peter never takes it out on anyone else. He embodies compassion with everything he does. I know I am grateful for him, always._

Mr. Harrington will later swear, on his _life_ , that he wasn’t affected by the notes. But here in the relative privacy of the empty classroom, as he bears witness to Peter and Ned’s mutual devotion to one another, his eyes begrudgingly start to burn.

 _These kids,_ he suppresses a groan, blinking rapidly. He is an _adult_ , for god’s sake. He doesn’t get mushy over touching words anymore. _They’re going to be the death of me._

It is undeniable, though, that the loss of either boy will leave a crippling impact on the other and the rest of the class. Even if no one else chose Ned or Peter, Mr. Harrington isn’t blind; he’s _seen_ the two boys’ influence on their classmates. Sure, they can both be shy and quiet at times, _reserved_ , but the two have become irrevocably entangled in the lives of their peers. Peter, for example, never fails to provide a spot of cheer during his classes with Mr. Harrington; more often than not, Peter would spend half the class maneuvering around the tables at his classmates’ behest, occasionally bending down to talk one of his peers through a difficult problem. Ned, too, is a bright presence in the classroom, never failing to coax his classmates into raucous laughter after one of his jokes.

One of the two will probably be the best bet for the program, Mr. Harrington decides. But which one? Peter or Ned?

Mr. Harrington groans, shooting the clock a backwards glance. _4 p.m.,_ he acknowledges to himself. He’s already spent upwards of half an hour agonizing over this choice, and he just wants to _go home_.

Looking back at the stack, his eyes catch on to the note right below Ned’s. The name _Flash Thompson_ peeks out, barely visible at the corner of the note.

Slowly, a smile settles on Mr. Harrington’s face.

Again, Mr. Harrington isn’t _blind_. He’s long since been aware of Flash’s tendency to pick on (read: _bully_ ) Peter. Unfortunately, when Mr. Harrington went to Principal Morita with his concerns, Morita simply dismissed him without a second thought, citing the Thompsons’ excessive donations to the school as an excuse to let it go. At the time, Mr. Harrington merely gritted his teeth and gracefully bowed out of the principal’s office, resigned to keeping his silence despite the regret sinking in his stomach.

But now…

Mr. Harrington is just a _teacher_. There is nothing he can do on his own, not against a pair of wealthy parents or the principal. But there is nothing to say he can’t _indirectly_ teach Flash a lesson.

 _This_ , this he _can_ do.

Perhaps if Flash is forced to imagine walking down their school hallways without a hint of Peter Parker anywhere for the rest of his school days, he’ll realize Peter’s value and the faults of his actions. Perhaps if Flash sees how short and _finite_ life is, he’ll see his wrongs.

Mr Harrington can only hope so, anyway.

* * *

**'Every Fifteen Minutes'**

_“The Every 15 Minutes Program offers real-life experiences without the real-life risks. This emotionally charged program, entitled Every 15 Minutes, is an event designed to dramatically instill into teenagers the potentially dangerous consequences of drinking alcohol and texting while driving. This powerful program will challenge students to think about drinking, texting while driving, personal safety, and the responsibility of making mature decisions when lives are involved…”_

* * *

Three weeks later, the program truly begins. The principal makes sure to issue a warning beforehand to prevent any genuine panic from breaking out (the teachers learned that the hard way last year). With the reassurance that it isn’t real, many students see the two-day period scheduled for the program as a chance to take a break from their classes and unwind.

They know what is going to happen. They know it will all be _fake_. No one is actually dying.

But sometimes, “knowing” doesn’t really equate to “understanding” or “believing,” and the subconscious tends to work in strange ways.

Despite the principal’s briefing, the students find themselves unprepared for the emotional upheaval that surges in them with each and every student’s "death". Every fifteen minutes, a participating deputy officer enters a different classroom and takes away one student. After the student’s removal, another police officer enters the classroom to read out a prepared obituary to the silence of the class. The obituary would be posted at the front of the classroom, and that would be that.

The chosen student wouldn’t return to classes for the rest of the day. Their notable absence from their usual routine is supposed to “simulate the feeling of loss that the other students would experience in the event of a real death,” or so the pamphlet claims.

And it _works_.

Some students cry, loud and blubbering, as their friends are pulled out of the room. Others are silent, _disquieted_ , as they try to imagine what it would be like if their classmate were really dead, immediately feeling dread and tragedy seep into them.

They’re only kids. Most of them have never even _felt_ the effects of death before.

(They’re lucky. So, so lucky.)

Finally, an hour before classes break for lunch, an officer enters Mr. Harrington’s classroom. “Peter Parker,” he calls out, eyes flicking briefly to the card he’s holding. “Mr. Parker?” he repeats in the ensuing silence.

“I’m here,” Peter replies, a little surprised as he stands up, inwardly fighting to ignore the stares of his classmates. He didn’t expect to be chosen. He likes to be invisible, to stay in the background and _blend in_ , and _this_ is the complete opposite of “blending in.”

“Mr. Parker,” the officer offers him a sympathetic smile. “Please gather your things. You won’t be returning today.”

The finality of the words _you won’t be returning_ settles like a death knell in the classroom, and the hard edge is only barely softened by the comfort of _today_. Peter can already hear Betty, one of the most sensitive and empathetic of all his classmates, begin to sniffle.

Fighting the urge to glance back at Betty and reassure her, Peter nods politely at the officer. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledges with a respect that has been drilled into him by his aunt. He hurriedly shoves his pencil case and books into his bag and slings the backpack over one shoulder. He takes a moment to make sure his phone and his watch are both safe on his person –

 _Hold on. My watch._ Peter’s eyes fixate on his wrist—his _bare_ wrist—with growing horror. _Where is it? Where did I leave it?_

Mr. Stark will _kill_ him if he’s somehow managed to lose his multimillion dollar StarkWatch. _Make sure to keep it on you at all times, you hear me, Parker?_ Tony had threatened upon gifting it to Peter one rainy day. _It cost me a fortune—I promise it’s more expensive than you. Just kidding. Not really, but that doesn’t matter. Just – wear it always, please? It’ll monitor your vitals for me, so I’ll be able to check that you’re alive and not, I don’t know, bleeding out in an alleyway or something. I have heart problems, you know._

 _Shoot, shoot, shoot,_ Peter thinks now. _How the heck am I going to explain this one?_ He’d _sworn_ to Mr. Stark that he’d never take the watch off except to—

Oh. _Oh._

( _“KAREN, remind me to put my watch back on tomorrow morning, yeah?” Peter says aloud to his AI, attaching his StarkWatch to the charging case it came with. It’s the first time he’s had to charge it so far—he doesn’t know how its battery has been able to last this long, but somehow he’s not entirely surprised, given that it_ is _Tony Stark’s creation—and he’s more than a little concerned that his forgetfulness and Parker Luck are going to rear their ugly heads at the same time._

 _“Of course, Peter,” KAREN hums in reply._ )

Peter calms down and resists the urge to facepalm. _Of course_ he’d ended up forgetting it at home, even _after_ making a genuine effort to remember to wear it. He briefly wonders how he could have missed KAREN’s notification before shrugging it off. He’ll just put it back on tonight, before going on patrol. Tony had designed the watch with _Spider-Man’s_ trouble-magnet tendencies in mind, after all; he’s pretty sure _Peter Parker_ can live without it for one day.

God, he must _really_ be out of it if he managed to go half a day without realizing the heavy watch—not _literally_ heavy, because it’s a StarkWatch and Mr. Stark is nothing if not efficient, but _metaphorically_ heavy with the weight of Mr. Stark’s expectations—is missing from his wrist. Peter feels a yawn building in his chest and thinks, _yep, still out of it._ Between a long patrol spanning from late night yesterday to the early hours of the morning today, and back-to-back science and math classes with droning teachers who refused to let him nap, today has been hell.

Peter raises a hand to his mouth and stifles a yawn. _Maybe I can rest my eyes for a bit now that I’m being taken out of class,_ he thinks hopefully. Worries about his missing StarkWatch abated and fighting drowsiness, he dutifully follows the officer out of the classroom without another word.

Mere moments later, a different officer enters the room, false obituary in hand. She stands behind Mr. Harrington’s desk as if it is a podium, and recites solemnly, “Peter B. Parker, 16, died on the 5th of February, 2017, as a result of injuries sustained in a car crash involving a drunk driver. He was born on the 10th of August, 2001 in Queens, New York City, to Mary and Richard Parker. Peter is survived by his aunt, May Parker, as well as his close friends Ned Leeds and Michelle Jones.”

Betty sniffles louder. _His aunt_ , she keens in a hushed whisper to any who will listen. _The only family he has left is his aunt. If he – if he were really dead, she’d be all alone—!_

Her best friend, Cindy, reaches out between their desks and grips Betty’s hand tightly, like an anchor, a lifeline.

“At the time of his death, he was enrolled at Midtown High, where he touched many lives with his generosity and passion for life,” the officer continues, moving on to the next part of the obituary. Even as she reads, she keeps one eye on the students, her heart twinging briefly; she isn’t a mother herself—she doesn’t have kids to call her own—but she’s had to face the devastated parents of child victims before. She’s had to face child victims, _period_. It’s never a pretty sight. “A member of Midtown High’s Academic Decathlon, he displayed an unparalleled knack for solving problems and thinking outside the box. Peter truly lived life to the fullest through chasing simple pleasures: chatting with friends and family, eating takeout with his aunt, and reviewing any and all sci-fi themed movies. Peter had an uncanny ability to reach people in a deep and positive way; he was bright and energetic, and he was known for his tendency to help others.”

She pauses, her words sinking into the room savagely, raking through the students like a claw.

A few more students have started to shake at the sound of her words, and the image they paint—a dark-skinned boy in the corner, blinking rapidly at the mention of Peter’s _tendency to help others_ ; an Asian girl with pin-straight hair, biting her lip at the allusion to Peter’s brilliance; another boy, squeezing his eyes shut and looking away at the memory of Peter’s enthusiastic personality.

She shakes her head to clear the hesitation and adds, trying to maintain a facade of ruthless indifference: “He will be deeply missed by his family, friends, and all who knew him.”

And that final sentence, punching into the stillness of the room, makes it all _so real._

The tension in the room crumbles, much like Betty Brant does in her seat, dissolving into breathless tears. Much like Abe Brown does, burying his face in his hands and refusing to look up. Much like Cindy Moon does, trembling minutely in her chair as she remembers Peter Parker, his smile twinkling brightly at her like the north star.

The officer trails off at last, and the room is left in silence as she gathers her composure and posts the obituary at the front of the room. The obituary has been professionally forged, made to appear _real_ and foreboding—indeed, the dark borderings of the paper, the official lettering, and the sharp, crisp black ink all drive a nail into the proverbial coffin.

 _Listen,_ the obituary seems to whisper at them, vicious. _Pay attention. You could lose him._

Without another word, the officer exits the room and flees the morose stares of the students. With the officer gone, all that is left is the obituary. There is no other sign that Peter Parker’s alleged death ever occurred, except on the faces of those he “left behind.”

And in the empty space where he would have been sitting, smiling, laughing.

(Already, they are feeling the effects of loss, their usually boisterous gossip never starting up. Normally, Mr. Harrington would be glad for the reprieve. But today, he looks at his students, sitting dazed and numb in the midst of Peter’s stark absence, and just sighs.)

(Amidst the haze of sorrow, amidst the uncertainty, Ned Leeds slumbers on in blissful ignorance, having missed the entire scene as well as the principal’s disclaimer. Ned doesn’t _usually_ sleep during class, he _swears_ ; he always tries to pay attention out of respect for his teachers, if nothing else.

But today, he can’t muster the energy to feign awareness. He’s _tired_ , the liveliness sucked out of his soul after an exhausting night spent hunched above his computer, splitting his attention between listening to the police radio chatter and prattling on about any reported incidents to his web-slinging best friend.

He _loves_ being Peter’s guy in the chair. That fact is uncontested. And he wouldn’t give it up for _anything_ in the world.

So Ned figures that if he has to miss a few hours of class to catch up on his much-needed sleep, then it’s worth it. What harm can it do, anyway? It’s not like he’s missing anything important.)

* * *

It isn’t until the bell rings, calling for lunch time, that the students finally snap out of their stupor and Ned finally jerks awake. He yawns drowsily and blinks the sleep from his eyes, turning to Peter’s seat beside him. “Hey, Peter—”

Ned falls quiet, frowning in surprise when he doesn’t find Peter. Mumbling in confusion, he looks closer and realizes that Peter’s bags have disappeared, too. “What the—? Did he go to the cafeteria already?” he ponders aloud and tilts his head in confusion; he and Peter _always_ get their lunch together. He can’t think of any reason why Peter _wouldn’t_ have waited for him, especially since MJ is out sick today, leaving Peter with no one else to walk to the cafeteria with.

But where else would Peter be?

Finally, Ned just shrugs, figuring he can ferret out the _why_ of it all later when he catches up to Peter in the lunch line. He gathers his bags in his hands and leaves the room, still puzzling over Peter’s disappearance. In his distraction, he completely misses the other students’ conversation about the very person he is seeking.

“Wow, I didn’t expect to get so emotional,” Cindy is saying to Betty. “It feels like Peter’s really gone.”

Betty nods rapidly. “I know! I mean, I guess that’s the point—to make us realize how serious this issue is. But it feels – _weird_ , y’know? It’s not as if Peter speaks a lot normally—it isn’t any quieter now than it would be if he were still here—but he’s still an important, integral part of this class. I can’t imagine our class without him.”

“ _Pfft_.” The derisive snort comes from Flash, who scrunches his nose at them as he overhears their murmurs. “We’re better off without that loser, anyway,” he says viciously, cuttingly.

“ _Wha_ — Flash!” Cindy scolds, straightening in her seat in anger. She was usually shy and timid, preferring to keep to herself, but her emotions run hot. Whenever she snaps, she does so with explosive _force_. “For once in your life, try not to be such an _asshole_ ,” she fumes. “You wouldn’t be saying that if he were _really_ dead.”

Flash just harrumphs at that, turning up his nose with a sniff.

Cindy’s eyes glint with indignation. “Come on, Flash, stop—”

“Cindy,” Betty interjects with a pointed hum, resting a hand on her friend’s forearm. She shoots Cindy a significant look and herds the other girl to her feet. “Forget Flash. Let’s just go.”

“What?” Cindy blinks. “Betty, didn’t you _hear_ what he said? How can you just—?”

“He isn’t worth it,” Betty shakes her head, the words cruel and dismissive, but the coldness of her gaze gentles when it sweeps past Flash again. She doesn’t say it now—doesn’t expose Flash—but she can’t forget what she saw earlier, as the officer was reading out Peter’s obituary: Flash, hunched in on himself in his corner seat, eyes downcast and _red-rimmed_. Flash is far more rattled by this program than he lets on, but if he wants to pretend to be a jerk to feel better about himself, Betty isn’t going to stop him.

They all have a lot to think about, after all, after today.

Cindy grumbles in annoyance, but begrudgingly follows Betty out of the room.

Flash waits until they’re both gone and he’s left alone in the sanctuary of the classroom before he lets the sneer fall from his face. Without his permission, his eyes automatically dart back to the obituary on the board.

 _Goddamn Parker,_ he thinks, stomping down his guilt. He’s never bothered to make things right with Peter, never bothered to apologize and reach out and _try_ , but…

 _No. What am I thinking? Don’t be ridiculous, Flash. He’s not dead. He’s not._

When he looks back up, grappling with anger at Peter and anger at himself, he realizes he’s subconsciously made his way to the front of the room, stopping only when he’s directly in front of the obituary.

He gazes at it critically. Peter looks... _happy_ in the picture chosen for the obituary. _Then again_ , Flash thinks, _Parker is rarely ever_ not _happy._ The only times he’s ever seen Peter without a smile are – _shit_ – when Flash is teasing him. Flash doesn’t even know _why_ he does it, really.

Well, no, that isn’t true. He _does_ know.

Somehow, some way, despite the background he comes from, Peter seems to have _everything_ he wants. (Everything _Flash_ wants.)

Peter doesn’t come from money, Flash knows this—he knows this in the way Peter’s shoes never change even as they begin to fall apart, held together only by duct tape; he knows it in the way Peter goes through the same rotation of science pun t-shirts every once in a while; he knows it in the way Peter’s jeans still have the same stains from months ago, from when Flash shoved his lunch into his lap; he knows it in the way Ned always offers Peter half of his lunch everyday.

Flash _knows_ Peter’s aunt struggles to make ends meet.

And yet Peter is still so irritatingly cheerful, day after day. He has _friends_ , too—real friends the likes of which Flash wouldn’t be able to recognize. Ned and MJ don’t stick by Peter because of his riches or his reputation, not like Flash’s friends do.

And most of all, Peter is frustratingly _intelligent_. He has the Decathlon position Flash yearns for, he has the teachers’ favor (Flash _sees_ the way Ms. Warren and Mr. Harrington smile whenever Peter raises his hand and blurts out the correct answer with record speed, even if Peter had noticeably barely been paying attention beforehand), he has the effortless straight-As.

He even has an aunt who loves him. On nights where Flash’s jealousy gets really, _really_ ugly, Flash can’t help but think that Peter has more family than he does, despite his losses. Peter may have lost his parents and his uncle, but his aunt genuinely _adores_ him, in ways Flash’s parents never have. The disparity has become obvious over the years: every time they have a Decathlon competition, Peter always has someone to cheer him on—a familiar vision of long brown hair and _Go Peter Parker!_ banners and excited squeals—even though Flash has no doubt that May Parker is endlessly busy paying off the bills.

Flash’s parents are nowhere near as busy, and yet they have never once shown up to one of his competitions. And _sure_ , he’s just an alternate, but he’s still _part of the team_. He wishes his parents could appreciate that.

So. Flash is _jealous_. He hates it, but – he doesn’t _understand_ Peter. He doesn’t get what _Peter_ has that _he_ doesn’t; what makes Peter better than _him_.

He can’t accept it.

(So he lashes out. He lashes out and lashes out and _lashes out_ , using Peter’s shame and pain as a balm for his own wounds.

It doesn’t help, not really. But it makes him feel _powerful_. It gives him control, the sort of control he’s never had in his own home where his mother is always flitting in and out like a flighty butterfly attracted to shinier things and his father is always filling the silence with drunken shouts, and Flash can’t bring himself to _stop_.)

Malice and self-loathing burning within him in equal measure, the opposing sides of the same coin mingling until the lines are blurred and the two are indistinguishable, Flash pushes his guilt into a vault and locks it in, firmly. _There’s no way I feel bad for Penis Parker,_ he tells himself sharply. _He deserves it._ Someone _has to show him his place, after all. Besides, I have nothing to be sorry for. He’s not even dead._

And so Flash does what he does best: he lashes out again.

Without a word, he digs his phone out of his pocket and snaps a quick picture of the obituary, Peter’s name emblazoned prominently under his picture. He logs into his Twitter account and attaches the picture to a new post, thumbs flying rapidly across the keyboard as he types out a pithy caption with harsh, angry jabs. By the time the photo has been uploaded (accompanied by the acerbic words _as if anyone would even miss parker, lol_ ), his fingers are squeezing the phone so tightly it feels like it will leave a permanent dent in his skin.

(There’s no way Flash could have known the domino effect his actions would spark. He has no idea the disaster he’s courting by posting that obituary—and without any sort of disclaimer, no less. He doesn’t even spare a moment of thought for the possible ramifications of his post.

Truthfully, Flash isn’t thinking at all when he acts, the only thing driving him his contempt.)

* * *

Tony Stark is in a board meeting when it happens. He’s barely paying attention as it is, leaning back slightly and scrolling through his phone beneath the table with the ease of someone who’s done so a thousand times before. He can sense Pepper glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, but no one else seems to notice his distracted state, so he ignores her palpable annoyance. He can just get FRIDAY to replay the highlights of the meeting for him later, anyway.

“Boss,” FRIDAY interrupts with a smooth whirr, startling the board members. “Protocol: _On the Web_ has been triggered.”

Tony jerks upright as if yanked by a leash, nearly losing his grip on his phone in his shock. Protocol: _On the Web_ was designed to screen the internet for any mention of Peter Parker’s name, or any emergence of his face. “Shit,” he curses under his breath, sliding his phone into his pocket and swiping his hand across the air to signal FRIDAY to open whatever had flagged her systems.

The board members are murmuring amongst themselves by now, and Pepper’s glare has darkened, but Tony doesn’t even notice, his heart thundering in his chest. If Peter’s secret identity has been endangered—

Tony blinks.

It’s a Twitter post.

With more than a little confusion and wariness, his eyes take in the caption first: _as if anyone would even miss parker, lol._

Tony’s gut churns at the callousness of the words, an intangible and unfathomable _dread_ sinking its claws into his soul. He can’t quite understand why those words make his heart stutter in his chest, until—

Until he can.

There’s a picture of the kid above the heartless caption. Of _his_ kid. Peter’s smiling up at him, curls as messy and unkempt as ever, freckles dusting his cheeks in a way that makes Tony want to _squeeze_. And his eyes—god, his _eyes—_ are as wide and innocent as they always are, gleaming with the cheer of youth even from the other side of a screen.

And beneath the picture:

_In honor of Peter Benjamin Parker._

_2001 - 2017._

And Tony’s heart _stops._ His world starts to fall apart at the seams.

He can’t think. Can’t _breathe_. He collapses into his seat like the air’s been punched out of him, like he’s a marionette and his strings have been cut.

_No. No no no—_

_Oh, god. Not him. He can’t be gone._

_Please don’t take him away from me—_

Blood roars in his ears, deafening him to all else as he stares blankly—uncomprehendingly—at the picture. Beyond the ringing in his ears, Tony can hear a broken, strangled _wail_ —

It takes him a belated moment to realize the wail came from _him_.

“ _Tony_ —” Pepper’s voice is muddled in his ears.

Tony’s standing before he even realizes what he’s doing. He pushes his chair back, staggering away from the table of board members staring at him in confusion, as if Tony’s gone mad when Tony’s pretty sure _they’re_ the ones who are insane, to act as if the world is still spinning, as if anything else matters. “I have to – I have to _go_ —” he chokes out, fumbling with his wristwatch until the Iron Man suit starts assembling around his body in a familiar process that does nothing to ground him. “ _Pep_ —”

He turns to her in a panic, but he doesn’t have to worry: she’s already nodding in understanding and agreement as she leans in to see FRIDAY’s alert, her face pale and ashen, one hand clapped over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

(Pepper has always loved Peter.)

“ _Go_ ,” is all she says, but he’s never heard her voice like that before: like her reality is collapsing all around her and she’s helpless to keep it together.

(Maybe he’s the one who’s helpless.)

A few board members startle, exclaiming in protest.

Tony turns, ready to yell at them until they understand that _his world’s just stopped, can’t they see_ , but Pepper is already on it. “Family emergency,” she says, hoarse.

And any other time, Tony would have flushed and immediately tried to deny the implications of him and Peter being “family” with a stammer, all the while feeling warm that Pepper recognized them as so.

(Why did he always _deny_ it? Why did he never just _tell_ Peter how he felt?

Now, he’s lost the chance to. Peter will never know how much he loved him, how much he _still_ _loves_ him, because nothing can take this from Tony—

Peter will never realize.)

But this isn’t any other time, because Peter is—

Tony grits his teeth. He can’t finish the thought.

Instead, he angles himself towards the window and _shoots_ off the ground, crashing through glass and soaring through the air with one destination in mind: “FRI,” he says, voice wrecked and unrecognizable even to his own ears, “plot a course to Midtown High.”

(Because god, it’s midday on an ordinary, unremarkable Thursday and Peter is supposed to be in _school_. He’s supposed to be _safe_.)

* * *

The first thing he does is order— _implore_ —FRIDAY to _call Peter_ , the command hoarse and shaky in his voice. _Terrified_.

The phone rings once—

“Please,” Tony mouths, the plea loud and deafening in the cavern of his mind. It’s all he can hear, but no sound leaves him. He’s breathless, the air stolen from his lungs, and he doesn’t know how to return himself to solid ground. “Please. _Please please please pick up_.”

He’s never felt like this before, like the fate of his entire world hinges on one thing, _one person, one phone call—_

 _—_ Twice—

Tony squeezes his eyes shut, almost like he’s too afraid to face reality, to watch the moment of its inevitable collapse. To watch the foundations of his universe crumble to ashes, just like—

_No. He can’t be._

—It rings a third time—

A few days ago—mere _days—_ Peter had sent Tony a flurry of memes, all punctuated by at least half a dozen exclamation marks and emojified laughter. Tony had indulgently gone through each meme, snorted a couple times, and then restrained himself to sending back one eye-roll and a disapproving _don’t use your phone in class, kid._

Peter had sent back an eye-roll of his own.

At the time, Tony could never have imagined this—could never have imagined _losing Peter._ If he could have envisioned this, could have foreseen the unadulterated _terror_ gripping his heart, he would never have told Peter to stop texting in class. He would have maybe sent a laughing emoji of his own and encouraged his rebellious use of his phone during school hours.

Maybe then, Peter would pick up now. Wouldn’t leave Tony hanging in the worst moment of his life.

But he can’t take back the text he’d sent, the reproving _don’t use your phone,_ and now Tony’s helpless to do anything but _hope_ against hope that—

— _Ring_ —

Tony swallows. _Don’t ignore me,_ he wants to yell, even though the call hasn’t connected and Peter can’t hear him. _You’re not supposed to ignore me. You have to pick up—I need you to pick up—_

_I need you, period—_

_Please._

—his pleas go unheard, and the phone rings again—

The phone _clicks_.

“ _Hey!_ ”

Tony’s heart lurches to his throat, hope soaring—

“ _It’s Peter here!_ ” A familiar, shy giggle erupts on the other end of the line—the same giggle that typically sends a burst of warmth blooming across Tony’s chest. “ _Sorry I missed your call._ ”

Tony inhales sharply, finally recognizing Peter’s familiar voicemail greeting for what it is. Peter’s voice giggles again, but this time, it brings him no joy, no contented bliss; this time, it sends his heart crashing to the ground, hope withering like unprotected primroses in the blistering desert heat.

“ _Please leave a message at the beep. Or, you know, just send me a text like normal people. Unless this is Mr. Stark, in which case feel free to keep calling and prove your senior status._ ”

Normally, Peter’s voicemail message brings an amused smile to his lips, exasperation and fondness swelling within his chest in equal measure. _Peter,_ he’d chide, _how many times do I have to tell you to change your voicemail? I’m not ancient. I’m efficient._

Today, Peter’s teasing voice makes him choke on air, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Instead of affection, it is dread that pools inside him; he takes several deep breaths, trying hard to contain the fear, but as the phone _beeps_ tauntingly, a vision of Peter flashes across his mind. He can almost imagine the wide, shit-eating grin that took over Peter’s face when he first recorded the voicemail greeting, lounging lazily on a hammock of webs hanging from his ceiling.

His tentative self-control shatters under the weight of that image, and his dread _surges_ and spills over the edges, breaking through the dam that is his restraint.

“ _Peter,_ ” he croaks, teetering on the edge of a cliff. Salvation on one side, damnation on the other. “Peter, where – where are you? You have to… you have to call me back when you get this. Please. I— _please._ ”

The phone _beeps_ again, mute in his ears, and Tony is _empty._ He has nothing left to give, nothing but fear and uncertainty and desperation and—

A dying hope. _Please._

Silence. There’s no one to answer his calls, to reassure him and comfort him.

Tony falls and falls and _falls._ He watched the sharp, jagged rocks rush up to meet him, lets the tempestuous waves swallow him whole. There is no salvation here.

* * *

It isn’t until he is only a few minutes away from Midtown High that Tony finally musters the courage to order FRIDAY to reopen the post. He doesn’t want to see it—he doesn't want to _face_ it, Peter’s _death_ —but he needs to know.

“Boss, are you sure?” FRIDAY asks, hesitant. Sometimes, Tony can’t help but think that she knows him better than he knows himself.

This time, he blunders on, ignoring her unspoken note of caution. “ _Do it,_ FRI,” he snaps, breathless, steeling himself for the worst.

After a beat, the picture pops up in his visor.

Tony bites his lip and lets his eyes drink in the words:

_“Peter B. Parker, 16, died on the 5th of February, 2017, as a result of injuries sustained in a car crash involving a drunk driver…”_

Tony’s heart stops all over again. He can’t see beyond those words—see beyond _16_ and _died_ and _car crash_ and _drunk driver_.

“No,” he says, and it comes out as a broken moan. “ _No._ ”

(Tony prepared for the worst, but this—

Nothing could have prepared him for this.)

_Please, no._

A drunk driver. _Drunk_.

Ever the masochist, Tony can’t help but flash back to years into the past, _his_ past, filled with an endless stream of alcohol and an equally endless line of reckless actions. Tony had been _stupid_ as a teenager. Young and wild and _dumb._

What if he never stopped? What if he never _put down the bottle_?

What if it was _him_ who killed Peter?

He’d never forgive himself.

(He _already_ can’t forgive himself.)

Tony sucks in a harsh breath that scrapes against the inner walls of his throat like the serrated edge of a knife. A long, long time ago, the men in his life liked to say: _Stark men are made of iron._

Well, if Tony were made of iron, then he is bending and twisting, caving in on himself, turning brittle and cracking and _shattering_ beneath the vicious, unforgiving hammer that is the words _drunk driver_ staring mercilessly back at him.

Tony closes his eyes and wills the obituary away with a whispered command; he’s seen enough. FRIDAY wordlessly obeys, for once quiet and unresponsive in the suit, lacking her usual sarcastic gibes. If he doesn’t know any better, he’d say she’s in mourning.

 _Tony_ mourns. He mourns Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, in the wake of the words _car crash_ and _drunk driver_ stampeding through his mind like a broken record. He mourns Peter’s awkward rambles and giggling laughter, Peter’s childish innocence and overeager attitude, Peter’s earnest eyes and beaming grins, so blinding in their brilliance that not even the sun can hold a candle to _them—or_ to Peter’s radiance.

He wishes he could see Peter smile one more time. He’s always loved Peter’s smiles.

But he can’t. Now, stranded here in a world that has let him down in the worst possible way, all he’s left with are memories, memories that have been tainted by an unfeeling report and _car crash… drunk driver._ An _accident._

_An accident._

God, it was an accident. Just an _accident_. How strange— _laughable_ even, in a sick, twisted way—that being Spider-Man hadn’t killed the kid ( _his_ kid, Tony thinks of him as _his_ ), but that a _car_ had.

How _strange_ , Tony thinks, that after years and years of torment and heartbreak, after wilting under his father’s cruel (loveless) gaze and Stane’s betrayal (a betrayal _years_ in the making) and Steve’s deception (his eyes void of recognition and warmth, his lips downturned, his voice silent as he turns away from Tony Stark for the last time and walks out of his life), it is _this_ that breaks the great Tony Stark.

Except it isn’t strange at all. It isn’t strange when Tony lets himself dwell on Peter and the exact curve of his smile—shy and sweet and _true_ —the sound of his high-pitched laughter ( _you sound constipated,_ Tony mocks, _like a beached whale,_ and Peter shoves him away with yet another constipated laugh), the way he’d tuck himself into the loop of Tony’s arm when he’s feeling anxious, his eager demeanor and unashamed declarations of _you’ve always been my hero, Mr. Stark._ On the exact shade of Peter’s eyes—a warm hazelnut brown, like a mug of hot chocolate by the fireplace amidst the winter storm—on the shape of his birthmark, on the nervous stammer that often befalls him.

On his kindness and his thoughtfulness and the way he lives and loves and laughs without fear. On the _light_ that shines so _effortlessly_ from within him, threatening to blind Tony with its virtuous incandescence.

If he weren’t Iron Man, if FRIDAY weren’t keeping him safe and engulfed within his nitinol confines, Tony doesn’t think he’d be able to keep himself upright.

( _If FRIDAY didn’t auto-lock the suit whenever he’s in it, Tony would gladly let himself fall._ )

(Funny how Tony planned for _nearly_ _every eventuality._

Keyword: _nearly_.

He built Peter’s suit to be strong enough to withstand _anything._ He built the suit to protect the kid—just a _kid_ —from Captain America himself, from alien weapons, from hundred-feet falls, from even the relentless cold.

He’s never once imagined he’d have to protect Peter from _a drunk driver_. And, well—

 _And if you died, I feel like that’s on me._ )

* * *

(In the end, it takes less than half an hour to fly to Midtown High in the Iron Man suit.

It’s twenty minutes of flight.

It’s an eternity of torture.)

* * *

Tony Stark has always known three things for certain:

One: Howard Stark is an asshole.

Two: He will never be able to repent for all the deaths his weapons have caused. No matter how hard he tries, no matter how many more people he saves, it will never be enough to erase his sins or wash the blood from his hands.

And three: If Peter Parker were to die, a part of Tony would die with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a good portion of this is completely unrealistic simply because Tony Stark would definitely have the technology to ascertain for himself whether or not Peter’s actually dead, but I recently read a fic with a similar premise for the KnB fandom and I just couldn’t shake the thought of it, so, uh... take this fic with a grain of salt?
> 
> I have the next chapter mostly written already, so I’ll try to get that up soon :)
> 
> Let me know what you thought :) Also, I recently made a tumblr for this account ([@iron-loyalty](https://iron-loyalty.tumblr.com))! I haven't really done much with it yet, but over the next few days, I’ll be posting my current Irondad works on Tumblr until everything is up-to-date. I’ll also be posting previews and accepting prompts there. Anyway, if you have any questions about this fic (or any of my other fics) or just wanna chat, feel free to leave a comment or drop by on Tumblr :)


	2. grip you tight (but you’re slippin’ out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark arrives at Midtown High. Unfortunately, he's still under the impression that Peter Parker is dead. 
> 
> Naturally, chaos (and drama) ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is taken from the song Beautiful Goodbye by Maroon 5 (again).

After giving the students a few minutes to finish their lunches, Principal Morita activates the intercom and urges all juniors and seniors to the parking lot to witness the—simulated, of course—car crash. The teachers and participating emergency responders had planned out the simulation in excruciating detail: the police officers had donated a wrecked car from evidence lockup to be used for the simulation, and they’d already sectioned off the site of the crash with yellow tape. Two of the participants—one senior and one junior—had been selected for the fabrication and informed of their roles.

One of the seniors— _Douglas Fitzpatrick,_ if Morita remembers correctly—would act as the drunk driver, “arrested” at the scene for all to witness. The junior, on the other hand— _Peter Parker,_ Morita recalls faintly—would be posing as the casualty. Morita was worried, at first, that it might be too traumatic for Peter to play dead—Morita _knows_ Peter’s family history, after all. But when asked if he would participate, Peter had agreed reluctantly and asked, _All I have to do is lie still, right?_

Morita nodded at that. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Peter had merely beamed and reasoned, _Great! I’m kind of tired—I didn’t get much sleep last night—so I’ll just sleep through it._

(True to his words, Peter had started dozing off as soon as they’d arranged him on the road, before they’d even finished smearing the fake blood across his forehead.)

Morita had been stunned. Mr. Harrington had _choked._

But, well, at least Peter had said yes, which means that everyone involved has now been thoroughly prepped. All they have left to do is present their demonstration to the student body and _hopefully_ ingrain an understanding of the repercussions of drinking-and-driving in the students.

* * *

_Car crash…?_ Ned wonders to himself in confusion, head snapping up at the sound of his principal’s voice echoing through the school hallways. He feels vaguely nauseous. _Oh shit, there was a car crash? Here?_

He curses to himself and pushes his lunch away, jumping from his seat and following the other students outside. _Where on earth is Peter?_ he asks himself, not for the first time. After leaving Mr. Harrington's classroom earlier, he’d gone straight to the cafeteria, hoping to run into Peter either along the way or inside the lunch hall. Peter’s always getting hungry, after all; Ned reasons it isn’t _too_ farfetched that Peter left earlier to snag himself a big portion. But even after scouring the cafeteria, Ned still hasn’t caught sight of Peter, and his mind is running rampant with fear.

Morita mentioned a _car crash._ If there really _has_ been an accident in front of their own school, Ned has no doubt that Peter will want to be the first one to arrive at the site of the incident, doing his best to help even if it means giving up his secret identity.

 _My anonymity isn’t worth anyone’s lives,_ Peter once told Ned, _determination_ burning in his gaze. _If it comes between keeping my secret and saving someone… I know what I have to do._

 _Oh, shit,_ Ned swears. _Please tell me he hasn’t been exposed—_

His worry spiking as he jumps to conclusions, Ned hastens his pace and weaves his way through the other students, trying to push through the crowd. When he finally barrels through the gates and arrives at the parking lot, he freezes, the reality of _attention all juniors and seniors, there has been a car crash by the parking lot, please proceed in an orderly fashion_ wrapping around him like a vice.

A large number of juniors, seniors and teachers are already gathered around the site of the crash, lined in neat rows. Ned ignores the orderliness of it all and forces his way to the front, heart caught in his throat.

(If Ned were thinking clearly, he would have _realized_ something is _off_ about this entire situation. After all, why would Principal Morita be _encouraging_ students to go to the site of a _tragedy_?

But Ned _isn’t_ thinking clearly, partly because of his still-drowsy mind and partly because of his concerns for his best friend.)

Ned inhales sharply when he’s finally able to see beyond the assembled students to the crime scene.

Ambulances and police cars are already lined up along the street, with EMTs and police officers alike leaping out of their vehicles to respond to the accident. One officer yanks open the mangled car door and drags the driver out by the cuff of his shirt.

The driver looks _young,_ Ned thinks, squinting his eyes. _Have I seen him somewhere before…?_

Shaking it off, Ned turns back to the scene. Thankfully, Spider-Man is nowhere to be seen. Ned knows he shouldn’t be _relieved_ about that—shame punches through him even as he thinks it—but he also knows that Peter isn’t truly ready to have his identity exposed to the world, even if he _is_ resolved to give up his secret for the sake of others.

As the police officer tests the driver for his blood alcohol levels— _god, I can’t believe this is happening at my own school_ —the paramedics break off to approach someone else, a figure on the street Ned previously missed.

Ned _stiffens._ The pedestrian—the _victim,_ Ned thinks faintly to himself—lies sprawled out on the street, streaks of blood painted across his forehead. The victim looks even younger than the driver, hauntingly _unmoving_ as he rests collapsed on the road. _I’ve never seen a dead body before,_ he thinks numbly, bile bubbling up inside him, and his mind shrieks at him to pull away. But something about the situation, macabre as it is, keeps him fixated, horror and fear curdling in his gut. The victim— _my age, he’s my age—_ looks _eerie,_ skin pale and—

_No._

It takes Ned a moment—a moment longer than it _should_ —to recognize the victim. Beneath the blood, Ned _knows_ that face; he _knows_ those freckled cheeks and that tranquil smile and that mess of curls.

_He knows._

Ned’s heart _drops_ like lead, descending through the soles of his feet and burrowing into the pavement, as he finally understands _why_ Spider-Manisn’t at the scene of the crime.

Answer: because _Peter Parker_ already is.

_No, no, no—_

Ned watches, paralyzed, as the paramedics crowd around Peter—his best friend, his _brother_ —in a rush of footsteps and white coats. One of them kneels down beside Peter and feels for his heartbeat, fitting two fingers against Peter’s neck.

_No._

The paramedic stands, head bowed, and quietly announces Peter to be dead on arrival.

Ned doesn’t hear the whimper that exits his mouth. He doesn’t feel the sharp _twinge_ that shoots through him as he crashes to his knees, hands shaking by his side. He isn’t aware of anything but the fragmenting of his heart, the roaring in his ears, the tears in his eyes, _the blood on Peter’s face_ —

Dead on arrival. _Dead._

Ned only regains awareness, rapidly stumbling to his feet, when the paramedics start lifting Peter onto a stretcher. Just as they are about to cover Peter’s face with a white cloth— _no no no_ —Ned bulldozes his way through, shoving away anyone and everyone in his path. “No!” he gasps, and the desperate objection comes out strangled. “What are you _doing_?” _Don’t you know he’s claustrophobic?_ he wants to ask, rooted in denial. _He’ll be so scared. He won’t be able to breathe._ “Peter? Peter! Hey!”

“Hey, kid, you can’t be here—” one of the paramedics starts.

“Get out of my way!” Ned shouts, ducking under the paramedic’s outstretched hands. He can vaguely hear the other students start to murmur in confusion, but he doesn’t let that stop him. Their voices are muffled in his ears. All he can hear is Peter’s laugh, like a distant memory, an echo of another time. _Like hell I can’t be here,_ he thinks angrily. _That’s my best friend. He’s_ my _friend and he’s not fucking dead._

( _He can’t be. Please don’t let him be dead._ )

“Peter!” He skids to a stop by Peter’s side, nearly falling over onto his knees a second time. “ _Peter_? Why aren’t you responding?” He lurches forward and grips Peter’s hands, hanging limply from either side of the stretcher, with urgency. _Please respond, Peter. Please._ “Peter—”

“ _Where the hell is he_!?” an unexpected voice _bellows_ from above, sharp and _frenzied_ enough to be heard by the entire crowd. It’s a voice all of them have heard before, though most only recognize it from interviews and press conferences and the ever-iconic reveal of _I am Iron Man_. “Kid? _Kid_!”

“What the hell?” someone yelps from the crowd. “What is Tony Stark doing at Midtown High? In _Queens_?”

“Tony Stark? _Here_?”

“No way!”

“In the sky, look!”

“Oh, my god. It’s Iron Man!”

“Holy shit, it’s really him! _Tony Stark_! At _our_ school!”

Ned tears his eyes away from the bloody face of his best friend for the first time since he spotted him. He leans back on the heels of his feet, eyes darting to the sky—and sure enough, Tony Stark hovers above them, panels of red and gold gleaming under the midday sun.

“Mr. Stark!” the name rips out of Ned’s throat with a choked gasp. And then, more desperately: “Oh, god, _Mr. Stark._ ”

Iron Man’s repulsers power off with a mechanical whine. The suit lands mere feet away from Ned with a _thud—_ the force of which makes Ned _flinch_ closer to his friend until he remembers Peter is lying still and _dead,_ unable to help—before the faceplate finally slides open, revealing the famous face of Anthony Edward Stark.

“ _Ned._ ” Tony’s voice is raw and guttural, _wrecked,_ when he meets Ned’s eyes.

(Normally, Tony would call him _Ted_ or _Fred_ or _Jared_ or anything at all besides his real name.

The use of his real name breaks Ned’s heart all over again, because he knows why Tony uses it now; he knows why the situation is serious enough to warrant Tony’s disregard of his usual sassy routine.

He knows whose body he’s standing beside.)

* * *

The thing is, all of this could have been avoided. _All of this_ could have been _prevented_ —if only Ned had paid attention in class, if only Peter had remembered to wear his StarkWatch to school, if only Flash had added a short disclaimer to his post, if only Peter hadn’t fallen asleep during the simulation…

If only, if only, if only.

But none of those what-ifs happened, because _this_ is how the story went. There is no longer any use in pondering on those niggling what-ifs. Now, one can only take refuge in the present, in reality.

And in this reality, the errors of the characters piled up one after another, leading to calamity.

* * *

_A short while ago…_

Minutes away from Midtown High, minutes away from finding _answers,_ Tony makes one last effort to deny the reality staring him in the face:

“FRIDAY,” he says suddenly, “check Peter’s StarkWatch, please. Pull up his vitals for me.”

FRIDAY does so, and he waits with bated breath, hoping, pleading, _praying—_

God has certainly never listened to his prayers before. Or if He has, He’s never cared to answer them.

God doesn't answer them now, either.

When Peter’s details load on his screen, Tony’s hope shrivels up and dies in his ribcage.

 _No data available,_ the pop-up reads, as if the watch is simply out of range or malfunctioning.

Except Tony _personally_ built and customized Peter’s watch. He categorically _knows_ that there is no possible way for either of those two things to happen: Tony specifically designed Peter’s watch to have unlimited range, and his technology has never failed him before.

The only way FRIDAY wouldn’t be receiving Peter’s data is if the watch has been broken beyond repair, or if…

If there is _no_ data to receive. If Peter’s heart is no longer pumping blood through his body.

If Peter is _dead_.

Tony grits his teeth, swallows down the bile rising up his throat, and urges FRIDAY to fly faster. He needs _answers._ (He needs to know what took his kid from him.)

It feels like hours have passed—though Tony knows it’s only been a few minutes—before he finally arrives at his destination. FRIDAY brings him to a stop in front of Midtown High, and Tony’s worst fears are realized when he spots the congregation of police cars and ambulances parked outside the school gates.

Years ago, during the Battle of New York, Tony crashed through his balcony window and hurtled through the skies towards certain death. It was the first time since Iron Man’s creation that he’d been genuinely _afraid_ of flying. Since then, Tony made sure to keep his suit either on him or accessible at all times, unwilling to face the feeling of _free-falling_ ever again.

In that way, Iron Man is his _safety net._ His suit is his greatest form of protection.

Today, hovering above the scene of a car crash, Iron Man provides him no safety, no confidence. Tony looks at the assembly of emergency responders, of bystanders, and feels like falling.

(This is so much worse than the Battle of New York.)

Tony exhales shakily, activates his external speakers, and tries to hide the tremor in his voice as he demands, “ _Where the hell is he_!?” He winces at the sound of his own voice, made gravelly by terror. “Kid? _Kid_!”

He hears the murmurs almost immediately, but he ignores them; he may have grown up accustomed to being in the public eye, but right now, he’d gladly give it all up to _fix this_. He’d gladly give up _Tony Stark,_ give up his fame and fortune, to be able to take Peter in his arms and _keep him there_ – safe and sound.

It isn’t until he hears his name coming from a vaguely familiar voice that he snaps to attention, eyes immediately pinpointing the source—Ned Leeds, standing in the middle of a circle of paramedics.

Tony stops _cold_ , sucking in a sharp breath as a glacial darkness—wispy with fear and nausea—seeps into his bones, _strangling_ him.

Because the sight that greets him as he spots Ned threatens to break Tony all over again. He immediately recognizes him, his kid’s sidekick ( _How many times do I have to tell you he isn’t my sidekick, Mr. Stark,_ Peter would whine for the thousandth time. _He’s my guy-in-the-chair!_ ), leaning over the still form of Peter fucking Parker. Tony’s eyes unwittingly catch on the spatter of blood marring the kid’s face.

Tony doesn’t want to believe it. It _can’t_ be true.

(Peter Parker is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Meeting Peter, taking him under his wing and getting to know him—through evenings spent in the lab going over blueprints and pranking one another, through playful fights over the TV remote and movie options, through game nights and Mario Kart competitions, through mentoring and getting mentored—are _all_ the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

This… this is the worst.)

“Oh, god, _Mr. Stark,_ ” Ned’s voice quivers with fear, with loss, and Tony chokes back a sob, letting FRIDAY operate the Iron Man suit on auto. She powers it down and opens the faceplate for him, and he’s left _staring_ at Peter and Ned side-by-side, one kid unmoving and one trembling. Together even at the very end.

“ _Ned._ ”

Ned _crumbles._

“ _Mr. Stark,_ ” Ned repeats, voice hitching and then _splintering,_ overwhelmed by blubbering cries. “P-Peter, he’s – he’s... they declared him _DOA_.” The abbreviation—DOA—is nothing more than a hushed murmur as it leaves Ned’s voice, punched out by the sheer devastation in his cognizance.

Tony’s next breath stutters on its way out.

 _DOA_. To have it confirmed is a punch in the gut. It's electricity coursing through his blood, it's ice in his veins, it's a _missile_ exploding in his face. It's almost— _almost—_ enough to drive Tony to his knees, except… except he _needs_ to see it for himself, before—

Before he can believe it. Believe that Peter is truly _gone_ , that his smile will never again light up Tony’s life, that his world as he knows it has ended.

“Mr. Stark, I…” Ned _flounders._ He looks… so, so inexorably _lost._ Unable to escape this new reality that threatens to suffocate them with its terrors. Ned sniffles, convulsing. “Oh, god, Mr. Stark, I _can’t_ —”

Ned doesn’t finish his sentence, abruptly breaking off as gasping sobs overwhelm his voice. Tony doesn’t need him to finish his sentence; Ned’s tears convey his despair better than any words could have. So Tony might not know what exactly Ned was going to say, what Ned _can’t_ do, but Tony already knows he _can’t_ , either.

Not when Peter’s body is just _lying_ there. Completely, utterly motionless.

Tony gulps down a burst of fear, approaching the pair of best friends on trembling legs, as if he’s a newborn foal struggling to stand on his own instead of Tony Stark, the man behind the most successful technology corporation to date. Eventually, he manages to find his way, coming to a stumbling halt before Peter, unblinking eyes fixated on his kid and desperately _searching_ for answers, for any sign of life.

(Searching and _praying_ for any sign that Peter has managed to defy all odds yet again—that he has managed to elude even the bone-chilling label of DOA.)

He finds none.

A ragged, dissonant exhale tumbles out of his lips, the puff of air floating downwards, unseen as it crashes into smooth asphalt. His gaze follows, pulled towards the ground—pulled towards Peter—by some palpable force. Peter is mere feet away from him now—close enough that Tony would be able to touch him if he were to reach out—and yet he feels miles away, as if there is a cavernous distance between them impossible to bridge.

(If it _were_ possible, Tony would follow Peter anywhere.)

Tony shudders. “Wake up,” he whispers into the unbearable space between them like a prayer. A wish, one that sings true, born from the deepest desires of his heart. “ _Please wake up._ Don’t… don’t make me say goodbye to you. _Please,_ just – just _open your eyes_ , kid. If you're ever going to listen to _anything_ I say, let it be this.”

 _I can’t lose you,_ he doesn’t say, but _feels_ with every bone in his body. It’s true, he realizes: he _can’t_. He doesn’t know what he’ll _do_ if he’s truly lost Peter, only that it’ll be ugly. _Please wake up._

Tony Stark does not beg for anything or anyone.

Today, he does. Today, he sinks to his knees and presses his forehead to Peter’s and _begs._

“Peter, _please._ ”

* * *

The unexpected appearance of the famed Anthony Edward Stark at a high school in Queens is cause enough for shock. The sight of that same Stark, head bowed and on his _knees_ before one of their own? Well, that _easily_ sends a thousand more exclamations and rumors rippling through the crowd.

(Somewhere amidst all of these exclamations, somewhere in the thick of the crowd, Flash Thompson watches, dumbstruck, as Iron Man falls to his knees and whispers a mantra of broken pleas. Every single accusation Flash has ever made about Peter lying about his Stark Industries internship, about _knowing Tony Stark,_ returns to the forefront of his mind.

 _Parker doesn’t just_ know _Tony Stark,_ he realizes, feeling queasy all of a sudden. _This is… this is—_

Well. Flash doesn’t think he’s ever even seen his own _parents_ look at him like that: with such profound and unconditional _love._

 _So,_ Flash thinks as the bile rises up his throat, _Peter Parker has even more than I thought he did._

And as his classmates whisper excitedly all around him, hushed murmurs of _oh my god Tony Stark knows Peter Parker_ making the air _buzz_ with anticipation, Flash—for the first time in a long, long time—is completely silent in the face of new rumors about Peter Parker. Now, he knows the truth. They all do. And deep down in the inner workings of his mind, he finds himself unable to look away as his world comes crashing down around him.

After all, the truth hurts.)

It is these whispers that eventually attract Tony’s attention, and he reluctantly draws away from Peter to scan the area once more. It doesn’t take long before he spots the senior standing by the hood of a police car, hands twisted and cuffed behind his back. The student stumbles backwards and blanches visibly when Tony slowly—menacingly—rises to his feet and locks eyes with him.

Tony wonders what it is the student sees in his eyes. Wonders if the student can see the _fear horror guilt grief anger_ –

For now, Tony settles on anger. Pushes down the all-consuming anguish so that anger is all he can feel, all he _allows_ himself to feel. His jaw shifts tensely as the rage twitches and _spasms_ inside him, burning bright with the force of a supernova. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this angry (read: _hurt_ ) before.

Tony thought he knew anger.

He was wrong.

 _This_ – this is anger the likes of which he’s never encountered before. This anger goes far beyond the rush of explosive fury at Yinsen’s murder; the ice-cold rage he felt at Stane’s betrayal; the mix of panic, wild urgency and volatile anger that consumed him as he faced the threat Loki posed to his home; the vulnerable, vengeful and _defensive_ outrage that exploded inside him as he watched Bucky Barnes’ fingers curl around his mother’s throat; the hurt that devoured him and turned him blind with the need to _attack attack attack_ (read: _protect himself_ ) as Steve Rogers turned against him.

This is anger that _overwhelms_ —the type that threatens to crush him under its weight or boil him alive. It’s an anger that froths with every inch of affection he felt for Peter, every ounce of devotion and care and _love._

It’s an anger that _devastates_.

(His kid is gone. All he has left to hold on to now, as he struggles to keep himself above water, is this.

Giving into grief will drown him. Giving into _rage_? It’ll destroy him, but at least it’ll be quick.)

He’s _livid,_ and he takes that wrath and turns it into vitriol, stalking forward like a predator with prey in its sight.

“Y-You’re _Iron Man_ —” the student chokes, either a last-ditch attempt to distract Tony or an unspoken plea for mercy, Tony can’t tell, but _he doesn’t care._

He growls, a heartbroken _howl_ disguised by the red-hot flame of fury, and lunges forward, grabbing the senior by the collar of his shirt. He yanks, _vicious,_ and drags the senior up until he can barely touch the ground with his toes.

“Was it you?” he thunders, deaf to the alarmed protests of the police officers surrounding them. The student is quiet, the air frigid and taut between them, and Tony _snarls,_ repeating himself, “I asked you a goddamn _question,_ asshole. Was it _you_ who killed Peter!?”

( _Do you have any idea?_ he wants to say. _Do you have_ any _idea what you’ve done? To Peter? To May, to Ned, to that MJ girl? To Happy, to Rhodey, to Pep?_

 _To_ me _?_

_Congratulations, asshole. You managed to bring Tony Stark to his knees. And I have no idea… I have no idea—_

He has no idea how to _fix_ himself, how to pick up the pieces and glue himself back together in the face of the wreckage of a _car crash_ and _Peter Peter Peter_ and _blood—Peter’s._

It feels like the world has stopped, but Tony knows reality is crueler. He knows there is no end in sight, _knows_ the world will keep on spinning and time will keep on marching and people will keep on living.

What he _doesn’t_ know is _how_.

How? How can he _possibly_ live on? How can he live in a world without Peter, without _his kid_?)

The color drains out of the student’s face. Tony doesn’t give him a chance to answer before he’s growling and drawing back a fist, white-knuckled with tension. The officers’ protests grow louder, more desperate, but Tony pays them no heed. He can’t pay attention to anything at all beyond the buzz of _Peter Peter Peter_ beating in time with his racing pulse.

 _I’ll make you pay. My kid deserved better,_ he thinks, _knows_ —

His kid.

He stills.

In life, Peter had been the kindest, most gentle person he knew. Peter had been generous and considerate and immeasurably selfless.

Peter had believed in second chances.

Tony closes his eyes in defeat, the breath leaving him in a frustrated hiss. Tony would gladly raze the world to _ashes_ for Peter, but Peter had never been one to condone violence. _Don’t fight fire with fire,_ the kid would say, shaking his head in something between exasperation and fondness. _It’ll only burn you, too._

(Tony would gladly burn alive if it meant Peter was safe. He’d _willingly_ let the inferno take him if only—

 _If only._ )

Tony lets go of the student’s shirt and pushes him away with enough force to send him staggering backwards. “Don’t think that you’ve been forgiven,” he seethes, dark and lethal. “You should be fucking _grateful_ that my kid was _ten times_ the person you are.”

(Peter is— _was_ , Tony reminds himself with an ache in his chest—ten times the person _Tony_ is. Peter has always been better than the rest of them, with his heart of gold, his tendency to care about _everyone_ he meets, his unfailing optimism, his compassion, his peerless sense of duty and morality, his earnestness and _genuineness_ —

 _He was so much better,_ Tony thinks. _He was the very best of us_ _, and—_

And somehow, Peter had believed in _him_. Peter was _always_ the first person to have faith in him, to trust him and support him. Peter had been his greatest and most ardent supporter—the kid's confidence in him had _never_ wavered, even when Tony’s own self-confidence did.

Despite all of his failures, despite the blood that stains his hands to this day, Peter has always seen _good_ in him. For some _unfathomable_ reason, Peter—who possessed more goodness in his bleeding heart than _anyone else_ Tony knows—looked up to _him._

He didn’t deserve it. He _failed_ Peter.

 _I couldn’t save him—_ )

The senior student falls back against the police car, violent tremors running through his body. “I don’t – I don’t _understand,_ ” Douglas Fitzpatrick whimpers pitifully. Principal Morita hadn’t told him _anything_ about a surprise guest appearance—much less about _Tony Stark_ being that guest. He tries to gather his thoughts, tries to process the situation as he wonders if this is all simply part of the demonstration—maybe the event organizers wanted to use the hysterical reaction of a bystander to further drive the point home and remind the students that their actions have consequences. But why _Tony Stark_?

Or, better yet: _how_? How, when Tony Stark is unarguably the single most influential man in the entire _world_ , thanks to both his limitless fortune as the owner of Stark Industries and his prodigious fame as Iron Man? When Tony Stark is the same tech tycoon who regularly spends his time among the fellow elite—CEOs, military generals, and world leaders alike? When Tony Stark is an Avenger— _the_ Avenger—who reforged himself into a superhero in a dark cave in Afghanistan, right under his kidnappers’ noses?

Finally, Douglas shakes his head and backs away from the famous Avenger, closing his eyes to the sight of Actual Tony Goddamn Stark staring at him with pure _hate_ in his eyes. This doesn’t feel like a performance.

“What… what are you talking about? I didn’t _do_ anything,” he insists, breaking character in an effort to escape Mr. Stark’s judgmental, recriminating gaze. Who _wouldn’t_ break under _Iron Man’s_ stare? “ _I didn’t do anything_!”

His desperate protests only seem to dig him an even deeper grave. Tony’s glare _darkens_ inexplicably. “You ‘didn’t do anything’?” he echoes, a laugh that is both hollow and hysterical forcing its way out of his throat. “ _You didn’t_ — no. _No._ I’m not letting you escape this, escape what you _did_.” _I haven’t been able to escape it. Not since I found out. Not even for a second._ “I was interrupted in the middle of one of the most boring board meetings I’ve _ever_ sat through by an alert and a fucking _post_ on social media. I had to find out through a goddamn _Twitter_ post _._ ” The words come out hissed, _simmering_ with something deadly, his voice fluctuating at random points. Unstable. He certainly _feels_ unstable, reminiscent of a ticking time bomb, as if one misstep from the handcuffed student might set him off.

Tony pauses, a niggling feeling at the back of his head reminding him of something. Something _crucial._

_Tick. Tick._

_Tick._

_The Tweet—_ Tony remembers with sudden, _sickening_ clarity, the heartless caption that had accompanied the posted obituary.

[ _as if anyone would even miss parker, lol_ ]

Renewed rage _blazes_ in the pit of his stomach, sparking a growing fire. He’s hit with the sudden and powerful urge to revisit the Tweet that started all of this and hunt down the poster who dismissed Peter’s life with _careless ease,_ completely unaware of how much _brighter_ Peter made Tony’s own life. Unaware of how _lucky_ they were, to have shared a school with the most brilliant kid Tony has ever met.

 _‘As if anyone would miss him’? That’s… oh, god._ I _would,_ he thinks, nauseous. _I would miss him. Pete knows that, right? That I’d miss him. That I already_ do _miss him._

Peter _has_ to know that, or…

Tony shakes off the line of thought before the possibility of Peter _not_ knowing, of Peter _doubting_ how much he means to Tony, can send him into a tailspin. Instead, he focuses on the present, on the asshole currently shrinking away from him.

Tony corrals his new, _different_ anger into a vault for the moment. He can figure out who was cruel enough to post those words _later._ For now, he lets his original festering rage at the student driver solidify into lead, into _poison._

“You’re not escaping this,” Tony reiterates, unrelenting. “You’re going to _pay_ for what you’ve done.” _If not in blood, then I’m at least going to make you pay in prison. I won’t stop until I do._

“I don’t know what you’re _talking about_ ,” Douglas continues to plead his case, face scrunched up in desperation. “I – I swear. Whatever you think I did, I _didn’t_ do it. I didn’t! I don’t know what I could’ve possibly done! We’ve never even met before, Mr. Stark.”

The name ‘Mr. Stark’ sounds _wrong_ on this student’s tongue, twisted and tarnished. It sounds nothing like how Peter says the name, like a familiar nickname instead of a distant moniker. It feels like a glaring blemish on his memory of Peter; it feels like a betrayal.

“ _Don’t,_ ” Tony bites out. “Don’t you _dare_ ”— _ruin my memory of Peter, the only thing I have left of him thanks to you—_ “say my name as if you have _any_ right. I suggest you tread _very carefully_ from now on, because as it is, I’m already looking forward to seeing you sentenced to prison forever. Piss me off _again,_ and you won’t like what happens next.”

“Mr. Stark!” an unfamiliar voice interjects, sounding flustered and more than a little beleaguered. Tony whips around to find a middle-aged man in an off-the-rack suit and a horrendous mustard yellow tie jogging up to him, looking harried. Tony vaguely recognizes him as Peter’s principal— _Morrison_ or _Morita_ or something like that. “Mr. Stark, _please._ You’re making a scene.”

Tony’s jaw drops. ‘Making a scene’? He’s _making a scene_? Not for the first time today, an overwhelming torrent of emotions explodes in his chest. A staggering indignation at the realization that, at a time like this, the principal’s primary concern seems to be maintaining appearances for public perception, as though Peter is but an _afterthought_. A monumental, bone-shattering _agony_ —a sort of pain bigger than bruised ribs and broken bones, sharper than shrapnel in his chest, stronger than _palladium poisoning_ —at the thought of how hurt Peter—Peter, who holds nothing but the utmost respect for his principal and his teachers—would be to realize how little he factored into his own principal’s priorities. A reinvigorated, unquenchable thirst to ravage everyone who’s ever wronged his kid and everyone who’s ever looked the other way.

Tony snaps his jaw shut. His expression shutters, shock at the interruption turning into frost. The indignation burns low in his gut, ignorable only because Tony already has his sights set on another target. “I suggest you _get the hell out of my way._ This is the _only_ warning you’ll get, so I’d advise you to make the smart move and take it,” he utters quietly, but the low volume of his voice does nothing to undermine the deterrent in it. If anything, it only makes Tony sound _more_ dangerous, his words less of an impulsive threat and more of a solemn _vow._ His voice is one that _guarantees_ retribution.

The principal— _it’s definitely Morita,_ Tony recalls—balks noticeably. “Mr. Stark,” he starts apprehensively, his own voice hesitant as if he believes he’s approaching a wild animal that might decide to attack him at any moment.

Tony immediately looks askance at Morita, silently exhorting the man to _choose your next words with caution,_ and Morita gulps audibly—but decidedly continues to stand firm in front of Tony. Tony would be impressed by the principal’s courage in the face of the Avenger who singlehandedly flew a nuclear missile into a wormhole if it weren’t for the fact that _his kid is still lying dead behind him_ and Morita doesn’t even seem to _care,_ defending a student who _doesn’t deserve it._

Morita clears his throat anxiously. “Please refrain from threatening my students, Mr. Stark. I'm not sure what Mr. Fitzpatrick has done to earn your ire, but regardless, he _is_ still a minor.”

 _A minor,_ Tony echoes in his mind, brimming with contempt. _A minor._ Tony has to _fight_ to bite back the instinctive response that leaps to his mind: _And what about Peter, huh? Another minor—one who was in your care, who was_ under your protection _while at this school? What about him, Morita? Or does_ he _not matter? His well-being, his life, his_ future _?_

“I don’t give a _shit_ what ‘Mr. Fitzpatrick’ is,” he grits out, struggling to rein in the anger enough to sound measured when all he wants is to tear into _Fitzpatrick._ “Prison would be a _mercy_ after what he’s done.”

Tony glances to the side to find that the student in question looks visibly nauseous, face ashen and horrified. “P-Prison?” Fitzpatrick stutters. “I don’t... I’ve never even committed a crime!” he protests, voice insistent and pleading. “I _haven’t,_ Mr. Stark. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

The words _the only misunderstanding here is why the hell you’re still seeing the light of day_ are on the tip of his tongue, begging to be unleashed. At the last second, however, Tony pauses, his eyes narrowing. There’s something _off_ about this entire situation.

It’s only when Douglas squirms uneasily, looking for a way out—looking for absolution—that it hits Tony. The student in front of him is _sober,_ he realizes. Or at the very least, he doesn’t _sound_ drunk; he isn’t slurring his words in the slightest. He may be stammering, but Tony can tell that’s from sheer nervousness, not inebriation. The student doesn’t even _look_ drunk—there’s no visible flush to his neck and chest, no wild-eyed look on his face.

Even more tellingly, Tony can’t smell the familiar, pungent stench of booze on the student’s breath.

There is nothing to indicate that the student was recently wasted enough to accidentally _crash_ into an innocent bystander. (Into Peter.)

(Honestly, Tony’s a little ashamed that it took him _this_ long to notice the student’s glaring lack of insobriety, but then again, he _has_ been a little preoccupied with the thought that he’s _lost his kid,_ so he figures he gets a pass on not being at the top of his game just this once.)

Tony’s narrow-eyed stare sharpens. An accusatory demand— _what the ever-loving fuck is going on here—_ is already on its way up his throat when he’s cut off before he can even open his mouth.

A familiar voice _groans_ behind them, drowsy and fatigued. Tony freezes, his heart thudding loudly in his chest, and for a moment, everything else sounds muted to his ears as his focus zeroes in on that single brief groan.

_Peter._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter to go! (I promise Tony will finally get to be happy next chapter)
> 
> sorry if Tony was a little OOC, oops. The real Tony Stark would have probably been able to figure out something is off wayyy before this point, but, well, I live for drama so what do you expect :)
> 
> As always, I appreciate any and all kudos and comments, so feel free to help yourselves to the comments section or come scream with me on Tumblr ([@iron-loyalty](https://iron-loyalty.tumblr.com)) <3


	3. the sky’d be falling (and I’d hold you tight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wakes up.
> 
> Or: Tony and Ned finally realize Peter is alive and there was never any car crash at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted to take a moment to thank you all so much for all the support you've shown this story. It makes me so happy to read all of your sweet comments and see all of the kudos this fic has gotten! <3
> 
> To be honest, when I first started planning this story, I expected this to just be a short one-shot. This was supposed to be a light, funny story; the premise itself is so ridiculous that I laughed when I first decided to write it. I figured this would be 4000 words max. Instead I’m at a little over 20,000 words and this is more angst than crack (for Tony, at least). I really have no self-control, guys. I’m not joking. I just can’t help myself when I’m writing these idiots. I love them so much. 
> 
> Anyway, here is the final chapter - the title of which is taken from the song 'If the World Was Ending' by Julia Michaels and JP Saxe. I hope you guys enjoy :)

Tony’s heart thumps loudly in his chest.

_Peter._

_Thud. Thud. Thud thud thud—_

He whirls around so quickly he nearly falls and suffers from whiplash, Douglas Fitzpatrick and Principal Morita immediately forgotten. The rest of the goddamn world falls away, out of sight and out of mind.

The groan was quiet, barely even audible, but Tony would recognize that voice _anywhere._

For the umpteenth time today, his heart stutters, suspended in time, and then _stops._ “Peter?” he trembles, the kid’s name no more than a whisper on his tongue. Tentatively, haltingly, he abandons Fitzpatrick and Morita both, making his way back to Ned and Peter— _Peter,_ his stupid, reckless, self-sacrificial, _brave_ kid who is still lying on the ground, a sight that predictably sends a shot of pain piercing Tony. But beyond the instinctive pain, a glimmer of _hope_ balloons in his chest, too, spreading through the rest of his body with unrivaled warmth. “ _Pete._ ”

“Peter…? Are you… Can you hear me?” Ned chimes in from beside him, and Tony _knows_ then that he can’t be hallucinating. It _feels_ like a dream, but the same hope he feels is painted across Ned’s face, too.

Right in front of their eyes, Peter’s face muscles _twitch_.

Tony’s heartbeat picks back up at a hundred miles per hour.

Watching Peter wake up feels like watching the birth of a star. Peter yawns, stretching his limbs like a cat that’s been curled up for too long, and all the while, Tony watches in breathless awe. After a few heart-stopping seconds, Peter sits up, and his eyes instantly catch sight of the scene they make, his best friend and his mentor looming above him with equally hopeful expressions on their faces—

And then Peter _beams,_ hand lifting up in a wave, laughter erupting from him like a shower of protons—a supernova. His smile is _dazzling,_ and it feels a little like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds. It’s like a burst of fireworks splashing across the midnight sky. It’s like the comfort of chocolate and marshmallows, like basking in the hot glow of a campfire.

It’s like hope rising up from a sea of misery.

(Tony never again wants to see Peter's brightness fade, to see the stars in his eyes die out.)

Ned pushes forward first, forcefully slotting himself in front of Tony. Tony doesn’t mind; he’s content with watching and waiting, now that he knows there is _a_ Peter to wait for at all. Besides, he knows what this means to Ned; he knows Ned’s heart broke just as his did.

Ned grips Peter tightly by his shoulders, frenzied eyes meeting his best friend’s. “Peter… _Peter._ Peter Peter Peter,” Ned chants breathlessly, Peter’s name falling from his mouth like a litany of prayers all blurring together. Ned blinks, once, and the tears overflow his cheeks in a series of cascades. “You’re awake. _God,_ you’re okay.”

“Ned?” Peter blinks, too, but instead of tears, there is only confusion and incomprehension in his eyes. Still, despite his own bewilderment, there is a reason he and Ned have always been best friends: no matter what, they are invariably there to support one another. For Ned, Peter doesn’t hesitate to ignore his budding uncertainty and reach out with his own arms, enwrapping his friend in a soft yet solid embrace, wordlessly providing the reassuring presence Ned needs even without knowing it.

“ _Ned,_ ” Peter whispers in a hushed, gentle croon, a murmured lullaby to soothe Ned’s frayed nerves. “I’m okay,” he echoes Ned’s near incoherent babbles without prompting. “I’m okay, Ned.”

Ned doesn’t hesitate to enfold Peter in his own arms, crushing Peter to him with an urgency that transcends speech.

Peter swallows, repeating his comforting whispers despite the unease that filters through him. Ned has always been his proverbial rock in the midst of disaster, his anchor to normalcy—to the life of Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. It’s unsettling to see Ned like this: devastated and crying in his arms, shoulders convulsing with the force of his sorrow.

(He became Spider-Man to protect families like his own; to prevent the tragedy that stole Uncle Ben from him from happening to countless others. He became Spider-Man to provide the people with a sense of safety, a sense of security, a sense of comfort.

How can he hope to comfort his neighborhood when he can’t even comfort his own friend?

Ned was never supposed to know sadness like this, _grief_ like this.)

“ _Peter,_ ” Ned snivels, burying his face in the crook of Peter’s neck. The collar of Peter’s shirt grows damp beneath his face. “You can’t – you can’t _leave me,_ Peter. You’re my best friend. You’re my _brother._ ”

Unbidden, tears spring to Peter’s own eyes, drawn out by the raw anguish evident in his best friend’s entire demeanor. He may not understand, but he doesn’t have to understand to know that Ned _needs_ him right now. “I know,” he whispers. “You’re my brother, too. I’m not going anywhere, I promise. I’m right here.”

Peter holds Ned, keeping him close, for a few minutes longer, unwilling to draw back before Ned does. He’ll stay like this for as long as Ned needs it.

Eventually, as the minutes tick by, Ned’s whimpers quieten and his shoulders stop shuddering. When he finally—albeit reluctantly—pulls away from Peter, it’s with a shaky smile and reddened eyes. _Thank you,_ his smile says, more effectively than words ever could.

Peter smiles back, understanding that Ned’s gratitude extends far beyond the impromptu hug.

It’s only now, after Ned has visibly calmed, that Peter allows his initial confusion to resurface.

“Ned, what’s going—” he freezes suddenly when his eyes catch onto something, or rather some _one_ , over Ned’s shoulder. Ned had blocked his view of their surroundings earlier, and his concern for Ned had clouded his attention anyway, but now that Ned has retracted himself somewhat, Peter can see the familiar outline of his mentor against the backdrop of his high school.

His mentor. _Mr. Stark._ At _his_ _high school._

“Wha – _Mr. Stark_!” Peter squawks, voice strangled and high-pitched (read: _embarrassed_ ) as he meets Tony’s eye— _oh, that’s right, he said his classmates don’t believe he knows me, as if_ he’s _the lucky one,_ Tony recalls faintly _—_ but it does nothing to tame the pleased, albeit shy, smile that crawls up his lips. “Oh, _my god_. Mr. Stark, what are you _doing_ here?”

The question comes like an accusation, tinged with both confusion and worry.

Tony isn’t worried. How can he worry about _anything_ when Peter’s awake and whole? Maybe that’s why he says in response to Peter’s question, heart on his sleeve: “I came here for you.”

Peter blinks once. Twice.

And then, as the words sink in, as Peter wraps his mind around the quiet admission, he chokes. “Mr. Stark!” he splutters, embarrassment growing as he becomes abruptly aware of _where_ , exactly, he is. Ned’s distress had blinded him to all else earlier, but now, with no distractions to redirect his focus, he feels the presence of _his entire student body_ all too distinctly. Under his schoolmates’ palpably shocked and interrogatory stares, Peter feels naked and defenseless, _vulnerable_ before the world.

The realization that his classmates, people he sees and socializes with _everyday,_ not only witnessed a private moment between him and Ned, but is also now privy to him interacting with _Tony Goddamn Stark_ in all his grandeur, punches into him with the force of an asteroid. Peter _blanches_ visibly, struggling to find words as he valiantly tries (and fails) to ignore his classmates’ piercing gazes, “Why – I thought – I don’t—”

“I thought you were dead,” Tony interrupts, a mere whisper, thick and stained with the lingering fears of the day.

Peter falls silent, his voice stolen from his larynx. Embarrassment and mortification deflating immediately, he _gawks_ , openmouthed and uncomprehending, at Tony.

Tony’s jaw shifts. When FRIDAY first alerted him of the dreaded post that spurred him towards Midtown High today, he cursed himself for never letting Peter know before it was too late—know how much he’d come to mean to Tony, how deeply he’d snuck his way into Tony’s life, how he’d redefined love and family as Tony sees it.

Now that it turns out it’s _not_ too late—now that Peter is breathing and awake and _alive,_ chest rising and falling with the proof of it—Tony won’t let Peter doubt his place in Tony’s life ever again. He’s done hiding, done pretending.

Life is too short, and he has too much to lose.

(It’s a lesson Peter learned early—far earlier than him—Tony thinks. He should have realized it from the very beginning, when he barged into a homely apartment in Queens and met Peter Parker for the very first time, small and timid and startlingly _determined_ in his cramped room, the brightest fire burning in his eyes as he stared Tony down and said, unwavering:

 _When you can do the things that I can, but you don’t, and_ then _the bad things happen... they happen because of you._

Tony had never forgotten those words.

Even back then, Peter had known the fragility of life and the importance of making every second count—while Tony had been clueless. For so long, he’d taken things— _people_ —for granted; he’d simply assumed Rhodey and Pepper and Happy and later Peter would stay in his life for as long as he wanted.

It is a fool’s assumption. Because sometimes, it’s not up to you. Sometimes, choice doesn’t weigh in.)

(Tony is scared of letting people in. Has _always_ been scared, ever since his father and Obadiah Stane taught him the taste of betrayal.

But he’s more scared of _not_ letting Peter in, of _losing_ Peter, he finds.)

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” he repeats, and there is something too honest—too _exposed_ —in his voice to deny. He meets Peter’s eyes and lays his heart bare: “I thought I’d lost you.”

Peter blinks rapidly, eyes pooling with tears. “Mr. Stark,” he says with a weak laugh, voice watery with choked amazement, “you’re going to give people the wrong idea if you keep talking like that.” A tentative grin curls on his face. He jokes, “God forbid anyone realizes Tony Stark has a heart.”

Tony laughs, his first since this morning. It feels freeing, like a vice grip has been released from around said heart. “Let them,” he says when he’s stopped laughing, warm eyes turning fierce and steely. Peter blinks, startled, and Tony smiles, soft but determined. “ _Let them._ ”

Peter resembles a deer caught in headlights. “B-But—”

 _Your reputation,_ he doesn’t say. He doesn’t need to; Tony can read the worry in his eyes. _You’re Tony Stark. What about your company? What about the press? What if they—_

 _Oh, Pete,_ Tony thinks. _You precious, precious kid._ Peter was always worrying about others; he was always putting others first. Putting _Tony_ first. Tony shakes his head in disbelief, because— _As if I care what they think about me. As if any of that matters more than this, more than_ you _._

He _doesn’t_ care. Nothing matters more.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs aloud resolutely, taking another step towards Peter, hands twitching with the urge to take his kid into his arms, to press two fingers to the side of his neck and _feel_ Peter’s pulse—Peter’s _life—_ beating against the pads of his fingers. “I just spent the last hour or so”— _has it really only been an hour? It feels like a lifetime has passed_ —“thinking you were _dead._ ”

Peter blinks again, the words Tony _didn’t_ say echoing loud and clear in the air between them. His tears spill over in a rush at last, tracking their way down his cheeks. With a startled, nasally laugh, Peter reaches up and rubs at his cheeks with the undersides of his wrists, brushing the tears away.

The motion of Peter’s hands finally redirects Tony’s attention to the side of his head—or rather, to the blood that smears it. _Oh, my god._ His stomach twists in horrified realization.

“Oh, _shit._ ” Tony’s heart lurches to his throat as his single-minded focus on _he’s alive he’s alive he’s alive_ dwindles slightly, replaced by reawakened fear for what he almost lost and could yet still lose. How could he have forgotten? _Stupid._ So stupid. In his defense, he’d been too caught up by the fact that Peter is actually _alive_ and _breathing_ to pay attention to the _obvious bleeding wound on his head_ , but _still_ —

He’s a terrible mentor, he thinks. _Shit. How long has it been? What if he has a fucking concussion, Stark?_ “Peter,” he chokes out, voice strangled with urgency, “you need to… you need to get to the hospital, or the medbay, or—wait, the paramedics are already here. Shit, we’ve wasted so much time already and your _head_ —”

 _Red._ So much blood. Tony’s stomach turns. He’s seen a lot of injuries in his time, both due to his wild past and his occupation as Iron Man, but Peter’s wounds have always affected him in ways no one else’s can.

This is _Peter,_ and he’s _bleeding from the head._ Tony should have flown him to the nearest hospital ten minutes ago.

But for reasons he cannot discern, Peter doesn’t seem to share his concerns. “What?” Peter’s brows furrow. He looks at Tony like he’s grown two heads, instead of the other way around. “Mr. Stark, I’m _fine,_ ” he protests.

“You’re _not_ fine,” Tony hisses, his heart racing in his ribcage. Thoughts of _head wound_ and _concussion_ and _internal bleeding_ sweep through his mind, like vultures looking to feast on the nearest rotten carcass. “ _Fuck._ You need medical attention _now_ —”

Speaking of which, why _haven’t_ the paramedics loaded Peter onto the ambulance yet? Sure, Tony and Ned have been fretting over him, but it’s their _job_ to make sure that Peter is in perfect condition.

Tony’s just about to turn and bark at the paramedics to _get your asses over here_ and _get my kid to the goddamn hospital_ when Peter yelps, “Mr. Stark, I’m _not hurt._ Really!” He gives Tony a meaningful look. “Why would I be—? I haven’t even gone _on the web_ yet today.”

“Peter,”—he swivels around to face the kid again, eyes narrowing—“there is _blood_ on your face. Stop pulling your ‘I’m Fine, I Swear’ routine. That stopped being believable a _long_ time ago.”

“I don’t have a _routine_ — and I really _am_ fine this time!” Peter persists. “Look, it’s just—” he reaches up and swipes a hand through the blood, offering his newly blood-covered hand to Tony.

Tony stares. He resists the immediate, instinctive urge to recoil, instead trying to assess the situation and figure out _why the fuck_ Peter is holding out _his blood-covered hand._

“ _See_?” Peter huffs, and Tony _doesn’t_. “It’s not real blood, Mr. Stark.”

 _Wait, what._ Tony’s brain short-circuits. Now that Peter’s mentioned it, though, Tony considers the notion and realizes that Peter’s supposedly blood-covered hand is missing the distinctive smell of blood, of rusted copper and iron. _What the fuck._

Peter smiles far too triumphantly at the dawning look of realization on Tony’s face. “I wasn’t even injured,” he insists.

“B-But— I—” Tony stammers incredulously. “What is all this, then? Why were you…” he trails off, not quite able to make himself voice the words, and instead simply gestures at the scene around them—the cluster of paramedics and police officers looking skittishly from Tony to his Iron Man suit and back again, the handcuffed teenager cowering against one of the police cars, the gathering of students, _Peter with (fake?) blood still on his face._

Tony swallows once, and then clears his throat forcefully. “I thought… I thought you were in a car crash…?”

Peter’s eyes widen as the first drops of understanding finally sink into him. _Oh. Oh!_ “Oh, my god. _Oh, my god._ I wasn’t — Mr. Stark, I wasn’t _actually_ in a car crash. I promise. Wait, is that why you thought I—? _That’s_ why you’re here?”

Tony nods hesitantly, still reeling from shock.

Peter mouths one more _oh, my god_ as he shakes his head frantically, waving his arms back and forth as if to discourage that belief. He looks like he isn’t sure whether to bemoan their luck or giggle at the insanity of their situation. “Mr. Stark. _Mr. Stark._ This is just a simulation. It’s all part of an educational program Midtown is participating in.”

Tony makes a guttural, dumbfounded noise at the back of his throat, so taken aback that he can’t even find the words to respond to that. _A… program?_

Peter finally gives in and snickers lightly, equal parts amusement and sheepish regret on his face. “It’s called _Every Fifteen Minutes,_ ” he explains apologetically, registering now why his mentor appears so _haggard_ before him, as if he’s been through a war. “It’s meant to raise awareness about the dangers of drinking-and-driving and stuff. I’m sorry if you’ve been…” he shakes it off with a grimace. “I would have told you earlier, but I kind of – heh – fell asleep.”

Tony instinctively takes in the entire scene again, his gaze absently drifting back to the car wreck, the lineup of emergency responders, _the gaggle of students and staff._ He should have realized the _second_ he appeared that there is something distinctly _wrong_ about an honest-to-god _civilian crowd_ gathering to goggle at a _crime scene_.

He shakes his head and zeroes in on the handcuffed student for the umpteenth time—only _this_ time, he pushes past the haze of anger and considers all the facts through an impartial lens. He remembers, abruptly, his jarring realization that the student seemed to show no signs of intoxication whatsoever. In light of his newfound perspective on the situation, Tony can only think: _oh._

“Oh,” he repeats aloud, half-ashamed. The other half of him is still far too _relieved_ to care about his mistaken assumptions.

Peter gives another giggle. “Yeah, _oh,_ ” he mocks.

Tony’s heart skips a beat. Despite knowing full well that Peter is making fun of him, he can’t help but smile contentedly at his stupid, _stupid_ kid, eyes crinkling at the corners. Call him biased, but Peter’s laugh is the best sound in the entire world.

Peter presses his lips together to muffle the rest of his laugh before he tilts his head, searching for his best friend once more. The second he locks eyes with Ned, he raises his eyebrows and aims a questioning gaze at the other boy. “And why were you crying, Ned? Did you... did you think this was real, too?” He looks endearingly confused. “The teachers handed out pamphlets _weeks_ ago, remember?”

Ned flushes when Tony turns to stare at him, visibly unimpressed. “How was I supposed to know that was today?” Ned protests, grumbling under his breath. After a prolonged moment, he scratches his cheek sheepishly and admits, “I completely forgot about that. I didn’t even connect the dots until you mentioned it.”

Peter squints. “Ned...” he draws out and proceeds to list, the teasing grin on his face growing with every passing second: “Mr. Harrington _told_ us it would be today. Principal Morita sent out emails in advance—both to us _and_ to our emergency contacts, to make sure we’re all informed. One of the officers _literally_ came into our class and notified us that I’d be the ‘casualty’ from our class.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Ned mumbles to himself, even more embarrassed now.

“ _Leeds,_ ” Tony groans, eyes slitted in incredulous disapproval, “ _really_?”

Ned splutters incoherently, trying to defend himself to the sound of Peter’s suppressed giggles.

* * *

After the initial rush of adrenaline has faded from all of their systems, Tony dusts off his pants, briefly eyeing the dirt-stained patches at his knees with resignation, and beckons for Peter to stand. “We’re leaving,” he announces in a voice that _dares_ anyone to disagree. He shoots Principal Morita—who is still standing a few feet away from Fitzpatrick, posture ill at ease although comprehension (dazed comprehension, but comprehension nonetheless) seems to have finally dawned on him after witnessing Tony Stark’s reaction to Peter’s awakening—in particular, a pointed glare. “Let’s go, Pete.”

Naturally, no one disagrees.

Peter shrugs, rising to his feet from where he’s been sitting cross-legged on the ground. “Good thing I’ve been excused from the rest of my classes,” he says, knowing better than to argue with Tony right now.

Tony nods jerkily. He turns to Peter’s sidekick with a questioning look. “Ted, you coming?” he offers graciously; he knows _he_ certainly wouldn’t want to be separated from Peter after the roller-coaster of a lunch hour he’s had.

Tony’s prompt return to using the familiar nickname _Ted_ startles Ned for a moment, but he’s too relieved by the reason _why_ Tony’s calling him ‘Ted’ again to care.

Ned hesitates, conflicted gaze darting to Peter—hungrily drinking in the sight of his best friend, alive and well—before he sighs and declines, audibly disappointed, “I can’t. Unlike _someone_ ,”—he shoots Peter a mock-annoyed glare that Peter promptly responds to with a self-satisfied grin—“I actually _do_ still have to attend my last classes of the day.”

Tony nods in sympathetic understanding.

Ned faces Peter with narrowed eyes. “But you and I are going to have a long, _long_ call tonight. Don’t even _think_ of skipping out,” he declares decisively, not giving Peter any choice in the matter.

Peter laughs, nodding easily. “I’ll hold you to it,” he agrees readily.

Ned relaxes minutely and nods, an expression of immeasurable _gratitude_ rising in his eyes.

“Okay, kid, come on,” Tony breaks the moment, being the first among the three to finally remember all of the eyes on them. “I think we’ve all had enough of being stared at for one day. I grew up hounded by the media circus and even _I’m_ fazed by all of this gawking,” he jokes.

Peter nods in agreement, shuffling closer to Tony self-consciously. Tony obligingly shifts so that he’s covering Peter from the prying stares as best he can.

“Where are we going?” Peter asks, privately grateful for Tony’s unspoken show of support. He knows he can always count on Mr. Stark to try to shield him from the rest of the world. “Is Happy picking us up?”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. _Absolutely not,_ he wants to snap. _You aren’t going anywhere near a goddamn car if I have anything to say about it._

Of course, he knows now that it was all just part of one elaborate educational program. He _knows_ that Peter was never in any danger at all.

But that knowledge doesn’t erase the hour in which he’d existed in his own personal limbo, suffering under the impression that Peter is _dead._ It doesn’t erase the panic, the fear, the _grief._ It doesn’t erase the fact that he can’t _bear_ the thought of Peter getting within ten feet of a car.

He also _knows,_ logically, that he can’t keep Peter sheltered _forever._ Peter will have to get back in a vehicle _eventually,_ whether it’s a school bus or Happy’s—technically Tony’s—car. There’s nothing he can do about that.

But for once, he doesn’t want to listen to logic. For _right now_ at least, he can prevent Peter from climbing aboard a car. For _right now,_ he _can_ do something about it.

“Nope,” Tony decides, reaching out and gripping Peter by the shoulders. Unapologetically, he turns Peter around and steers him down the street, away from Midtown High, smothering his amusement as Peter half-twists in his hold and waves a cheery _see you later_ at Ned. Fortunately—for _everyone’s_ sake—no one tries to stop Tony from leaving with Peter in tow (likely still too shocked to do anything but gape uselessly). “We’re going to walk. Think of it as extra exercise to keep your blood flowing. Your growing teenage body needs to stay active, you know. Keeps your immune system strong and all that—”

“ _Mr. Stark,_ ” Peter interrupts, completely deadpan, and pauses long enough to look around in search of eavesdroppers before he continues, voice lowered, “I’m _literally_ Spider-Man.”

“—So! Exercise,” Tony concludes loudly, expertly ignoring Peter. He’s only vaguely aware of his Iron Man suit silently trailing after them in the air, FRIDAY intuitively steering the empty armor.

Peter just sighs, accepting it for what it is. Still, he makes one last attempt to make Tony see reason. “Mr. Stark, my bags are still in my locker. I need my books for homework.”

Tony is suddenly and vividly reminded of sitting beside Peter on his cramped twin bed, trying to convince the kid to join him in Germany only for Peter to argue that he had _homework._ It’s such an insignificant, silly detail, but it’s a response that is so perfectly _Peter_ that Tony is abruptly struck by how _precious_ Peter is. It reminds him, inexplicably, of Peter’s unwavering sense of responsibility.

 _Oh, kid._ And just like he did last time, Tony waves it off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We can come back to take your bags _later_.” And by “later”, he means: _after_ he’s fussed over Peter a sufficient amount.

Peter seems to understand his unspoken implication, giving Tony an unamused _look_. “So how are we going to get to the Tower?” he asks, bypassing the issue of his missing books for the moment.

He’s been around Tony far too often, if he can read Tony _this_ easily, Tony thinks. He should probably be concerned, but he finds he doesn’t really care. Peter seems to be the exception to all of his rules.

“Unless, of course, you plan on walking the entire way there,” Peter adds skeptically.

Tony simply raises his gaze to the sky, where Iron Man hovers above them. “Have you forgotten that I have a flying suit?” he says.

Peter follows his gaze expectantly and laughs, shaking his head as if to say _I should have known._

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Tony coaxes, trying to make light of the situation and ignore the elephant in the room that is his irrational fear of letting Peter get too close to a four-wheeled vehicle (or _any_ wheeled vehicle, _period_ ). “Just think of it as express delivery service.”

Peter snorts. “You’re impossible, Mr. Stark,” he complains, but he indulgently follows Tony further away from his school, so Tony counts it as a win. “So, where are we _walking to_ now? Or are we headed to the Tower directly?”

Tony considers it. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to return to the reality of Tony Stark, owner of a multibillion dollar corporation, just yet. For at least a while longer, he just wants to stay like this: relaxed in the presence of his kid, where he doesn’t have to be anything or anyone but Peter’s _almost-father_ as he reassures himself of Peter’s continued existence.

He makes up his mind. “No,” he says. He doesn’t hesitate to change direction, luring Peter away with the promise of a treat—“You’ve been wanting to visit that new ice cream parlor near your school, right? You mentioned something about that last weekend.”

Peter stops short, staring at Tony in unmitigated awe. “You… you remember that?” he whispers.

Tony pauses, too, glancing sidelong at the kid. He huffs as if offended. “Peter, some people would say that I’m the smartest man alive,” he reminds Peter with an arched eyebrow. “ _Of course_ I remember. Or do you doubt my memory capacity?”

“No! That’s not… that’s not what I meant,” Peter stammers. “I just thought… I guess I didn’t realize you were actually paying attention. I know I ramble a lot, so…”

Tony softens. “ _Of course_ I listened, kid,” he says, and somehow, he sounds even more offended than when he thought his intelligence was in question. At the same time, though, he sounds immeasurably _fond._ Adoring, even—the way Peter sounds, sometimes, when he’s gushing over an endearing kitten. “I _always_ listen to you.”

Peter sniffles. Tony graciously ignores it and urges Peter along once more with a murmured _come on._ Peter hastens to follow and falls into lockstep with his mentor.

In the end, they walk away together, side-by-side, as the Midtown High students and staff watch on in openmouthed shock.

* * *

“Don’t _ever_ do that to me again, or I _swear,_ Peter, a drunk driver will be the _least_ of your worries,” Tony threatens once the Midtown High gaggle of gawkers are out of earshot, but the still-present tears in his eyes and the disbelieving—awed—smile on his lips betray the truth. He has no room left for anger when all he can feel is _relief._ Relief and so, so much gratitude. _Thank God you’re okay._

He squeezes his eyes shut and slings an arm around Peter’s shoulders, tugging him close. His body seems to be acting of its own volition as he ducks his head slightly and presses a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head.

Peter flushes bright red, but beyond the embarrassment, there’s something _giddy_ about the bounce in his step and the way he burrows closer to Tony’s side.

Tony’s heart swells. _This kid._ “I can’t lose you, kiddo,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark,” Peter says meekly, guilt flashing across his eyes and drowning out his quiet elation at Tony’s blatant show of affection. The last thing he’d ever wanted to do was add to his mentor’s burdens. “I swear I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You better not have meant to. You _know_ I have heart problems, kid,” Tony accuses, and though he means to come across as playful, the words reveal something raw and broken inside him, reflected in the scratchy quality of his voice.

A pause. And then, like the first ray of sunlight after a tumultuous storm, Peter teases, “I _knew_ you cared.” But despite his mirthful facade, a hint of sincerity shines through as Peter grips Tony’s hand in his own, like a terrified little boy hanging on to his lifeline—a guiding light in the dark, someone to look up to and someone to follow.

(It’s easy, sometimes, to forget that Peter is still just a teenaged boy, lost in the real world.

Other times, it’s _impossible_ to forget it—to forget that tragedy took Peter’s innocence from him far too soon; to forget that despite his maturity and strength and sense of responsibility, Peter is only a _child_.

In times like these, Tony _can’t_ forget. All he can do is hold on tight and hope he can keep Peter grounded. Hope he’s enough to remind Peter that _he isn’t alone_.)

Tony is tempted to play along, to laugh and dismiss Peter’s words with a roll of his eyes and a _“get real, kid.”_ But the memory of Peter’s blood-splattered face is still too fresh in his mind, so instead, he blurts out, all too honest, “Of course I care about you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Peter falls silent, wide-eyed as he stares at his mentor.

Tony swallows, squeezes Peter’s hand tightly in a moment of comfort for the both of them. “You’re – you’re like… like Sullivan Junior.” _Young and pure. An innocent child—_ my _innocent child._ “You know?”

“Uh,”—Peter raises an unimpressed eyebrow, his stunned awe momentarily back-burnered—“I have no idea who that is, Mr. Stark. If he’s from one of your old movies, then I’m going to need some background context.”

Tony shoves Peter with a huff. “They’re not _old_!” he protests, the beginning of a familiar argument buzzing between them. It’d be so simple, so _natural_ , to fall back into their usual back-and-forth, their easy banter. But he’s tired of running away from this—from the pride and fondness and _affection_ he feels for Peter—and so he pushes the beckoning urge away and says, “You’d be Simba, if I were Mufasa—that’s a reference a kid your age can understand, right?”

Peter sniffles. “Makes sense that you’d make yourself a king,” he jokes reflexively, even as his mind _buzzes_ with the implication of Tony’s words.

Tony snorts a laugh, quiet but unfeigned. He lets himself enjoy the comfortable atmosphere settling around them—enjoy the reassurance of Peter’s warm hand in his, the steady heartbeat pulsing in Peter’s wrist _tangible_ against Tony’s thumb—for a moment or two before he clarifies, so plainly that there can be no mistaking his meaning: “You’re like my _kid,_ Peter.” And then, because he always calls Peter ‘kid’ and he doesn’t want there to be any doubts left—“Like _my son._ ”

Peter’s vision blurs with tears. “Mr. Stark—”

“And you’re _such_ a good kid, Pete,” Tony breathes, and the praise washes over Peter like the sunset. Inevitable. Real, natural, genuine. It settles like the _truth_. Perhaps the truest thing Tony has ever said to Peter.

There’s so much more Tony wants to say, too.

Maybe:

 _I’m so lucky to know you. More than that—more than just_ knowing _you—I’m so lucky that I get to_ have _this. That I get to have_ you _in my life._

Or:

 _You’re the best person I know, Pete. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you, but I promise I’ll do everything in my power to one day_ become _worthy of you._

Or:

_Thank you for being here. For being you._

Or:

_You’re not allowed to ever die, you hear me? You can’t ever leave me._

Instead, Tony looks Peter in the eye, basks in the warm hot chocolate hue that feels like _home_ , and simply settles on:

“I love you, kid.”

Because this – _this_ is the most important thing. This is what matters most. And as long as Peter knows that, as long as Peter knows his place in Tony’s heart… the rest will follow.

They’ll find their way.

As if to reaffirm Tony's thoughts, Peter subconsciously steps closer towards his mentor, like a child blindly reaching out for their parent in a crowd full of strangers. “I love you, too, Mr. Stark,” he whispers, breathless as if he’s caught in a dream—but despite the awed disbelief in his voice, there is also certainty. _Conviction_. Peter doesn’t need to think about this—about what Mr. Stark has come to mean to him, beyond his initial starry-eyed impression of the famous Avenger. It’s been a long time since he’s seen Mr. Stark as just a hero, as just Iron Man, as just _anything._ “I've thought of you as a father figure for a while now.”

Tony, unable to help himself, drops another kiss onto Peter’s forehead. Peter blinks rapidly and clutches his mentor’s hand—his _dad’s_ hand, he thinks giddily, because he can _call him that now_ —tighter, feeling rather than seeing the tender smile on Tony’s face.

“I’m glad,” Tony murmurs, and his heart feels like it’s about to burst from all the joy and bliss flooding him. Peter beams up at him in response, and as Tony imprints the sight of Peter’s happiness in his memory forever, he can’t help but think, again:

_This is the most important thing._

* * *

They get their ice cream eventually, Peter eagerly and unashamedly wolfing down half a dozen scoops as he recounts the day’s events with animated gestures and infectious laughs.

All the while, Tony watches Peter over his own scoop of ice cream, his gaze openly affectionate and doting, his heart rate gradually slowing and settling with the reassurance that Peter is _right here_.

(The Iron Man sentry watches, too, FRIDAY’s sensors online and on the alert for potential dangers to Peter Parker’s person. Peter has never felt more safe.)

* * *

Once they’ve devoured enough ice cream to satisfy both their appetites (which unsurprisingly takes a lot more scoops for the growing Spiderling than it does for Tony), Tony leaves a wad of cash on the table and shepherds the kid out the door.

The glass doors swing shut behind them. Tony beckons the Iron Man armor to him and, once re-suited up, promptly opens his arms in a wordless invitation.

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation, but obligingly steps into the space between Tony’s arms with nothing more than a tolerant huff. Tony absolutely does _not_ sigh in inaudible relief as he grips Peter tightly and blasts off into the skies.

As the familiar neighborhoods of his hometown begin to shrink in the distance, Peter’s reservations gradually leach away into the open air. He lets out an involuntary yawn. Eyes helplessly drooping closed, Peter nestles his head more comfortably against Tony’s metal-plated chest.

Within seconds, he’s out cold again.

Shaking his head in amused disbelief at the kid dozing off in his arms, Tony inwardly _melts_ at the implicit show of trust. Granted, Peter could _probably_ fall asleep _anywhere_ —as evidenced by his earlier untimely power nap in the middle of the _road_ —but _still._ Just the thought that Peter feels safe and secure enough to drift off as they hurtle through the air at high speed, Tony’s arms the only thing keeping Peter from plummeting to his death?

Well.

Peter’s faith in him will never stop leaving him breathless.

The thing is, Tony doesn’t have any of his biological family left.

Truthfully, he’s never even known family, not really—or, at least, he’s never known the type of family Peter and May represent, bound together by unconditional love and trust, existing in a pocket universe of their own making, a safe haven closed off to the rest of the world.

Tony’s own immediate family is nonexistent. He barely remembers his grandparents; he has no siblings to call his own; and as for his parents, well—he lost them long before fate and the Winter Soldier took them from him for good. He lost them to his mother’s neglect and long absences, to his father’s harsh disapproval and cutting remarks, to years of silent suffering behind closed doors.

He used to think he barely knows what family even _means._

But when he looks at Peter now, unashamedly snuggled up to him, face open and vulnerable and _trusting_ even in sleep, he thinks he might finally understand. He doesn’t need blood to tell him that _this_ is what family should feel like: warmth and safety and a _home_ away from home.

He thinks he might have found family in Peter—in late night dinners with the two of them trading half-baked ideas for quirky gadgets and suit modifications over the kitchen table; in working side-by-side with Peter in comfortable silence, a well-oiled machine; in movie marathons spent crowded on the couch, Peter’s head on his chest and Pepper’s hand in his; in lab sessions filled with them hollering at each other across the room, Peter diligently working on calculations or doing homework on the floor; in long car rides across the bustling city, Peter rambling in his ear and Happy chuckling from the driver’s seat; in weekend sleepovers and early morning runs with Peter and Rhodey on either side of him;in watching baking competition shows with Peter and his aunt in their pajamas, Peter sandwiched between the two adults on the Parkers’ beaten couch.

A family forged through an eternity of contented moments, away from the glaring, unforgiving media spotlight that accompanied every waking moment of his childhood.

He may not have the DNA to prove that there’s love there, but he doesn’t need it. This is his family— _they_ are all his family—and he belongs to them more than he has ever belonged to his parents.

He glances down at Peter, tucked securely in his arms, unguarded and trustful as Tony flies him across the New York skies. All at once, Tony feels so much love swell inside him that he thinks he might implode from the enormity of it.

 _Peter_ is his family, and Tony loves him _fiercely_. It comes naturally, then—the realization that he’d do anything for this precious kid draped across his arms.

 _I’ll protect you always,_ he thinks, a _promise_ burning bright in his chest. It’s a promise he means to keep, for the rest of his life. _No matter what struggles you have to face—whether it be gun-toting criminals or drunk teenagers behind the wheel—come rain or shine, I’ll be here._

 _I_ am _here, kid._

_Forever._

**_BONUS #1:_ **

Tony _does,_ eventually, agree to accompany Peter back to Midtown High—ostensibly to retrieve Peter’s bags and books, but in reality for his own ulterior motives. As Peter makes his way to his locker, Tony makes a detour to a _different_ locker, having discreetly consulted FRIDAY for the name and identity behind the Twitter account that posted Peter’s obituary earlier that day. With all the resources at his disposal, it takes him no time at all to locate Flash Thompson’s locker.

That’s where Peter finds him a few minutes later, schoolbag slung over one shoulder. Peter narrows his eyes at his conspicuous mentor. “What are you doing in front of Flash’s locker, Mr. Stark?” he asks suspiciously.

Tony just smiles, but there’s a wicked gleam to it. “Nothing,” he lies, thinking of the passive-aggressive (read: _aggressive as hell_ ) letter he’d printed on official Stark Industries stationery and slipped into the offending locker, in which he’d not-very-subtly threatened to completely _obliterate_ Flash’s academic career and generally make his life _miserable_ if he even _looked_ at Peter the wrong way again.

His smile widens as he ushers Peter away without so much as a backwards glance. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

* * *

**_BONUS #2:_ **

(If Tony Stark goes home that day and immediately messages May to badger her to get him listed as Peter’s second emergency contact in Midtown High’s system— _just to prevent another misunderstanding like this,_ he pleads, and he isn’t _lying_ , but that isn’t his only reason, either—well, that’s his business.)

* * *

**_BONUS #3:_ **

When the time to participate in the _Every Fifteen Minutes_ program rolls by once again the next year, students are expressly banned from taking pictures during the event to prevent another fiasco (ft. another Helicopter Parent, even if not Tony Stark).

Notably, Peter Parker is not asked to be one of the casualties again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tony finally gets it haha (I'm finally letting him be happy it's a miracle) ;) and yes they're all a little slow ok
> 
> So I've marked this fic as completed for now because I felt like it was getting a little too long for something that was intended as a one-shot, but I *could* be convinced to write extra scenes - for example, a more in-depth, extended scene on how Tony deals with Flash/Midtown like some of you have been asking for. I've gotten a little attached to this story (despite its cracky premise), so we'll see ;)
> 
> Also, sorry for not involving MJ in this! I love her, but she’s way too observant, and I couldn’t think of any way to make it seem as if she was fooled by the program. I made Ned a soft boy who fell asleep, and Tony an Overprotective Dad(TM) who has a single-minded focus, but I just can’t picture MJ being fooled, period. So let's just say that she was sick and out of school on the day of the program, I guess?
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys have enjoyed this fic! Kudos and comments are always appreciated :) Let me know what you thought down below or on Tumblr ([@iron-loyalty](https://iron-loyalty.tumblr.com))! <3


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